Devon Banks sadly had some real photo work to attend to, so you're stuck with my clumsy fumblings. Which is a shame, as even Pitchfork bites her stuff. Above, Jedidiah Smith attracts onlookers' gaze while rocking out, tastefully.

So, two Fridays ago, the self-chosen few were treated to the latest, and probably greatest installation of my sporadic concert series, Neon Lights. I've loved all the shows we've put on, but this one had a certain kismet to it. A love for indie-pop, making it and listening to it, permeated every corner of Williamsburg's Glasslands Gallery that night. While these shows always exist in my head afterwards more as a music-video montage than a Frontline documentary, I've done my best to recount the happenings from my insider my booker's perch...

the Beets

Conversation I had with the Beets after they loaded in their gear:

"Is it OK if we go to sleep on the couches upstairs? Or would that make everything weird"

"I don't mind if it gets weird."

"Right on, man."

I have a chronic end-of-my-twenties syndrome right now where a disproportionate amount of the population look like teenagers to me, and the Beets fit squarely into that smooth-faced, indistinct block. But rather then making me feel decrepit, their opening set was alive with energy and good cheer, at least in fits and starts. Juan Waters' guitar, which looked like a sacred balsa wood artifact passed down from generation to generation, was prone to popping a string in times of great enthusiasm. There were several. Every word in a Beets' song is shouted, every sentiment an exclamation. But there's a weariness intrinsic in the songs as well. It's a bit of a puzzle. On the one hand, youthful exuberance, but with dreamy 60s melody hanging on every gang-shouted note. It's like they want to be a barnstorming garage band, but are made sleepy by the rote debauchery of current torchbearers like the Black Lips. I may not have them entirely figured out, but I am completely certain that they'll not stay under New York's fickle radar for long. "I was there" trainspotters, consider yourself on notice.

the Capstan Shafts

OK, so now I've met Dean Wells, seen him perform, and I'm still not quite convinced he's real. It's like the show featured a set from DB Cooper, or Bigfoot. In a bright white shirt, and with a shock of hair pointed starkly skywards, he seemed slightly more keyed up than the room's hipster denizens. Maybe it was just jitters, as this was something like the Vermont native's sixth show ever. The ratio of songs written to shows played will probably never reach even a lopsided 100:1, anyway. As a result, his set got off to a bit of a rocky start, with an oddly mic'ed amp causing feedback flare-ups and a vocals-light mix. Once fixed, I felt like the crowd still didn't know how to take him. The songs are so short and packed, that neophytes waiting for a chorus reprisal were confused that one never came. Had the songs been aborted? Naw, they just finished, with efficiency.

There were definitely Capstan Shafts diehards among the crowd though, myself included, and there was plenty for them to rejoice about in Dean's set (accompanied only by a sarcastic drummer). Euridice Proudhorn, which I've recently come to consider once of the best records this decade has produced, was represented by two of its utmost standouts, the sublime "Sleepcure Theory Advancer" and the nonsensically/nostalgically rockin' "61 Sideburns" (download both here). "Evelyn Halfstep," from the recent Miles Per Famine release was also warmly welcome. Polite college kids with a greater technological grasp of online obscurity mining than me called the names of tracks I'd never heard from the already fathoms-deep back catalog. Let's all pause to give a moment's thanks to the internet for once, noting a positive, nondestructive effect it's had on music. Thanks to its wires, buttons, and presumably towers of some sort, a man from Vermont, who releases album upon stellar album into a seemingly uncaring void can travel to New York to have the name of one of his gems called out to him, with little or no critical prompting. That's kind of neat, no? He took the kids' request, played it in 70 seconds flat, unplugged, and promptly disappeared. Seriously. I didn't see him again. As I imagine it, he walked out the front door into an empty street and promptly dissolved into a puff of smoke, only to reappear when another DIY concert promotion somewhere needs him desperately.

My Teenage Stride

I feel slightly like I'm retroactively ogling by putting up a big splash-page photo of My Teenage Stride's attractive bassist, Jenny Logan. But I mean she was there, playing (excellently, I might add). Truth be told, she's actually MTS' ex-bassist, and currently going forward with a promising project of her own, called Ribbons. MTS were down a man or two, though, so Neon Lights acted as a mini-reunion of sorts. Perhaps it was that special old-home feeling, or just that the economy of the band's pop songwriting is incapable of being translated in a less-than-tight manner, but MTS completely slayed. As the rhythm section locked in, songwriter Jedidiah Smith pulled a "pat your head while rubbing your belly" feat of pop derring-do. His guitar leads were rushing and excited, his vocals cool and measured. "How can his hands be on such a different wavelength from his pipes?" I drunkenly wondered. New Wave stunners like "To Live and Die in the Airport Lounge" and "Ears Lik e Golden Bats" made a huge impression on pals of mine who showed up on recommendation alone. I've played "Theme From Teenage Suicide" countless times in recent weeks, and its quality surprised me still. Maybe it's a byproduct of sporadic recent shows, but with this years' stellar self-released Lesser Demons EP receiving something approaching radio silence, it's quite possible that My Teenage Stride are New York's most underrated band. No one ever said that embracing Kiwi rock and Mark E. Robinson guitars was an easy road to fame and fortune, I guess.

the Pains of Being Pure at Heart

"I've never said this before, but, can I have a little less reverb..." said singer Kip Berman, early into the Pains of Being Pure at Heart's set, late in the evening. The band had carefully checked their golden mic (designed for "tweeverb" as Kip described it) behind closed doors, but perhaps he realized that there was only so much wistful romance a full room could stand before collectively breaking into tears, a massive group grope, or more likely both. Which is not to say that rollicking tracks like Slumberland single "Come Saturday" weren't dripping with lovely fuzz. It's their thing, you know? But what impressed me about the set is the transition the group seems to be making away from fey. Lyrically they're still smart and precious of course, but there's some guitar muscle under that cardigan. "Young Adult Friction" still seems like the band's breakout in waiting, and the urgent guitar breakdown mid-song only makes the snap back to sharp pop chorus all the more effective. It was a swell nightcap of a set all around. The kids are off to Sweden soon, but I've got further plans for them in this calendar year. Secret plans...

So sincere thanks to the bands for showing up and being excellent, DJs Marcus Parks (whose prime musical gig is drummer for the otherwise all-ladies Brooklyn band the Ingenues) and our own Prof. David Klein for lovingly providing their DJ selections while things were being sorted, and especially to all the tasteful folk who filled the room near capacity. I've got my work cut out for me in topping this one...

More pics are a click beyond...

Tonight's the night. I've gven you previews and persuation related to the first three bands on tonight's Neon Lights bill at Glasslands Gallery in Brooklyn. The Beets will bring some ramshackle grage charm, the Capstan Shafts a fiercely intelligent, singular vision, My Teenage Stride has sharp edges played smoothly, but it's the Pains of Being Pure at Heart who bring the swoon. Head over heels in love with indie-pop as a genre and philosophy, POBPAH bring fierce intelligence and wit to their contributions. Plaudits have poured in from impressive commenters like the FADER, Dusted, the L Magazine, Stereogum, and Germany's apparently hipper version of Rolling Stone. Like any fuzzy pop band worth their salt, they are appreciated on a higher level in the UK, where they'll be opening for Peel show legends the Wedding Present on their upcoming tour. This is the last NYC show the Pains will play before heading back to the indie-pop mecca of Sweden. While they plan to return in winter, the land of herring and high cheekbones has permanantly ensnared stronger folk then they. Come tonight before its too late!

the Pains of Being Pure at Heart - "Young Adult Friction"

This most recent track from the band, slated for inclusion on their impending debut LP, is to my ear their best. The rhythm is winter-morning crisp, the vocal interplay between singers Kip and Peggy is gorgeous, and there's even a muscular guitar bridge. It sounds effortless and complex, at once. It also works the word "microfiche" seemlessly in to a story of library humping. It's sort of the perfect specimen of its type. Check this stanza; "I never thought I would come of age/ let alone on a moldy page/ you put your back to the spines/ and you said it was fine/ if's there's nothing really left to say."

the Pains of Being Pure at Heart - "Kurt Cobain's Cardigan"

While it would be uncharacteristic for the Pains to express their iconic love for Kurt Cobain and his shoulder-warming wardrobe, the cleverly take the next best tactic of aping Kurt's favorite band, the Vaselines. After an opening that gets the Pavlovian "Son of a Gun" juices flowing, Kip's "tweeverbed" vocals rush in to soothe the young, myopic, and lonely hearted. "It's the last night of our young lives, tonight." Well, at least until tomorrow...

the Pains of Being Pure at Heart - "A Teenager in Love"

If this one doesn't trigger a fey make out avalanche, I might be slightly disappointed. The remarkable thing here is the black humor, sincerely delivered, amidst a backbeat that would make Molly Ringwald do that one dance. The model for the success there is clearly Belle & Sebastian. They see B&S's confused protagonist, preoccupied with "S&M and bible studies," and raise them "a teenager in love with Christ and heroin." Not everyone's cup of tea, indeed.

--

So, the stage is set, the line-up elaborated on, the hours ticking away. If you haven't left town for the long weekend, I sincerely believe that this is the best show here tonight. Come, dance, drink, yearn desperately to make a connection with a foxy concert goer, and a) regret saying nothing, or b) feel guilty about your succesful dalliance. Go home and write a song about it. It's the indie-pop tradition. See you at 9.

The page above comes from indie-rock lifers mag, Magnet, who love the third band on our Friday Neon Lights extravaganza (Glasslands in Brooklyn, BTW) enough to include My Teenage Stride's record Ears Like Golden Bats in their "Top 20 Albums of 2007." They are far from the only ones smitten by the sharp ties and tunes of songwriter Jedediah Smith. A brief roll call of admirers includes tasteful bastards such as Idolator, Pop Matters, Coke Machine Glow, the L Magazine, and the dearly defunct Stylus. None of this is surprising of course. What's not to love? With concise, sharply crafted songs that betray a fondness for all the great 80s record geek touchstones, it's clear that our loves are My Teenage Stride's. Postcard Records, Factory Records, Rough Trade, Flying Nun, these are the badges sewn onto the band's songwriting satchel. But as evident as they are, the songs never, ever feel rote, unimaginative, or the product of pure mimicry. MTS recalls those high-water marks because, like them, they put a premium on tight songwriting, performing exuberance, and execution, above all.

 My Teenage Stride - "Ears Like Golden Bats"

The title track to last year's critic-enchanter plays rope-a-dope in its first seconds, suggesting atmospheric clouds before breaking up the quiet with an improbably sprightly bassline. Which would be motion enough even without the introduction of jangling guitars, sprinting like the Louvre scene in Godard's Bande à part. Despite the active energy, Jed's refrain is pessimistic. "You're gonna let me down," he insists. His effortless vocal melody remains trustworthy throughout.

 My Teenage Stride - "Theme From Teenage Suicide"

Even better, perhaps, is this cut from the Lesser Demons EP, released earlier this year. The title would be enough to put me in mind of my beloved Unrest, but those giddy guitars are a more fitting tribute to the underappreciatd Teenbeat Records' catalog of the early 90s (underappreciated to the point that I really can't think of another current band really keeping that torch lit). Smith's lyrics are filled with the sort of non-sequitur that gets stuck in your head before you can puzzle out what it means, and the pinko "Red China and Russia look finer than gold" line is a fine example here, though the dark chorus, "She was a teenage suicide I never wanted her more!" wins the prize for macabre singability.

And check out the spiraling New Order guitar leads on the single below, which also throws in a nice vocal homage to Eno's "Cindy Tells Me" for good measure....

My Teenage Stride - "To Live and Die in the Airport Lounge"
..

 My Teenage Stride - "To Live and Die in the Airport Lounge"

and a bonus clip, just to put it over the top.

My Teenage Stride - "They are Alone in Their Principles"
..

Getting excited out there? I can hardly sit still. More info here, as always.

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P.S. If you'd like a chance to win a free ticket to this jubilant concert bill, head over to the blogosphere nexus for indie-pop enthusiasm, Skatterbrain, and read up.

A few proud soldiers in Dean Wells' CD-Rmy

What did you do today? Go to work, come home, eat a meal or two, a shower maybe, some TV, and then to bed? Well Dean Wells did those things too, but chances are he also wrote at least one killer song in addition. Recording as the Capstan Shafts, Dean has churned out as astonishing 25 albums and EPs this decade. As most all of his songs clock in between 45 seconds and 2 minutes, differentiating which is which becomes kind of tricky. These short fragments, and the prolificacy with which they are produced (not to mention their slightly British inflected tunefulness), reminds one of DIY saint Robert Pollard. But Dean's output is nowhere near as spotty as ol' Bob's was. Playing each and every instrument by himself, all of the Capstan Shafts' songs possess an immediately engaging, muscular pop craft. While a comprehensive review of his discography is pretty much impossible, here's are a few assorted gems. Listen to all of them. It'll take you, like, 6 minutes.

the Capstan Shafts - "61 Sideburns"

The song that charmed me initially, and a sure thing Dylan-runner up once Numerology hits 61. "We lived in the last genuine time..." it maintains, creating a convicted premature nostalgia for a present day that otherwise seems pretty damn fake.

the Capstan Shafts - "Magical Dance Number Scene"

Though his compositions fall in an ever-changing yet similar range of bite-size power-pop, Wells' darkly comic lyrics can cycle through a diverse series of tones is seconds flat. Take this killer creepout; "All my fragile dreams defiled/ yes, I see that she's with child/ yeah, I noticed this a while ago/ still, I want to nail her, like a routine/ used in some magical dance number scene/ waa-ooooo." You go from gently deflated to deeply disturbing, and then back to bawdily amusing in less than thirty seconds. The songs don't need to extend, because their time allotted is so richly filled.

the Capstan Shafts - "American Volume"

Living up to the titular noise, Dean brings the rawk here, with choppy riffs "charming the daylight out of the sky." But just because his amp is pushed up to 11 doesn't mean that clever turns of phrase are neglected. "I'll never turn you down," carries an elegant double meaning.

the Capstan Shafts - "Eyeliner/Skywriting, etc."

Often, the songs are such obviously engaging bursts that you don't even know what to say about them. It starts, is charming, and ends before you have much of a chance to process. Then there's another, and then another twenty more. Next month, another album appears. The Giving Tree of indie rock.

the Capstan Shafts - "Old Skull, New Mexico"

Maybe the remarkable thing about these home recordings is that Dean manages to sound organically like a living, breathing full band all by his lonesome. In this track from 2006's The Megafauna Undermined manages to sound like a slightly-soused Texas bar band to boot.

the Capstan Shafts - "The Trilateralist Told You Not To"

In which Dean works a reference to "antisocial Darwinists" (great name for a punk band by the way) into a Kinks-ian, silly tone + romantic guitar lines, stunner.

the Capstan Shafts - "A Heart That Never Flies"

As if Jeff Mangum hadn't taken a full sheet of blotter acid before putting pen to Neutral Milk Hotel lyrics notebook.

--

The Capstan Shafts output has mainly been released on CD-Rs scattered by the winds and released in puny batches on various tiny labels. It's the sort of awe-inspiring body of work that would likely have found a cult audience at some point in the not-too-distant future, no matter what, but interest spiked last year when Pitchfork published this rave about a handful of the albums. Writer Matt LeMay was forced to quiver, "How can this be so good?" Despite the grace of the tastemaking elite, Dean has been reluctant to leave home and hearth. He's played only a handful of live shows ever, and all of them occurred within the borders of Vermont. Below is footage from the inaugural gig last year, in a candle-lit rural Vermont church, no less:

the Capstan Shafts - "Sleepcure Theory Advancer"
(live in Stannard Church, Stannard, Vermont, 10.06.2007)

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eq4X7n743Q)

But now, perhaps partly in gratitude for LeMay's patronage, the Capstan Shafts are venturing to New York to open for Matt's band Get Him Eat Him at the Knitting Factory tomorrow. Never one to miss such a golden opportunity, I've convinced him to make his Brooklyn debut at Neon Lights' show at Glasslands this Friday. Though the bill offers further charms, it's basically the reason I put the whole thing together. The presence of at least one band mate will allow songs like the one below to maintain their formidable rhythmic thump.

the Capstan Shafts - "Boy to Get You Nowhere"

"Would you call it somewhere if we left the state?" it asks. Yeah, Dean, we would. See you Friday.

So, as I mentioned previously, but haven't really had time to elaborate on until now, this Friday night at the Glasslands Gallery in Brooklyn is the long-awaited return of my little concert series, Neon Lights. The first band to be inducted into NL's illustrious alumni ranks alongside past performers such as High Places, Titus Andronicus, and A Sunny Day in Glasgow, etc., will be Jackson Heights' own the Beets. And no, we're not talking about the favorite band of Nickelodeon's Doug. The Beets are newcomers to the New York concert scene, though they were praised effusively as early as last June. Lately they've been sharing bills with the Brooklyn fuzzy buzz-bin elite; bands like Vivian Girls, Crystal Stilts (hey, also a NL alum.), and caUSE co-MOTION! The few songs that have surfaced suggest that they definitely belong in that celebrated company.

the Beets - "No Blood"

the Beets - "Happy But on My Way"

The far-away echo on these tracks, which I believe are from the band's recent cassette-only release (hardcore!), is so pronounced that I picture a recording session complicated by an extension cord too short to get the four-track within 20 feet of the drum kit. But the melodies are pure enough to fill the cave, or whatever enormous space the recordings suggest. There is a certain 60s garage vibe to the tracks, an evocation of bored British teenagers ready who might just jump out of their skin, if they only had the resolve to brew another pot of tea first. But instead of sullying that timeless aesthetic in grubby modern debauchery, as the Black Lips do, the Beets remain sweet and chaste. Even "No Blood"'s tale of lunch gone wrong conjures a bit of romance. "Happy But on My Way" is stuck on full-wistful as well. The title's "but" is key. Hazy melody is certainly a pleasurable place to park, but the increased rhythmic focus edges us to move on.

the Beets - "Walk on Your Toes"
..

This video, by singer/guitarist Juan Waters, is quite charming as well, theorizing that advances in technology might be able to rid the drum machine of its inhuman stigma once and for all. The song itself guarantees that the Beets opening set Friday will feature pop punch in addition to a smooth caress.

Check back throughout the week for songs and info on the rest of the super-stellar bill. To cut to the chase now, you can poke around here.

The hiatus ends abruptly with a seriously stacked fuzz-pop extravaganza. More info to come. Obviously.

photos by Devon Banks

So I officially have some sort of a mental block when it comes to neatly wrapping up the concerts D and I book. It has been one month exactly since the last Neon Lights Presents... night in Brooklyn, and here comes the wrap up just now limping across the finish line. Perhaps it’s the sedating blush of an event completed or the psychological reluctance to move beyond a fleeting triumph that leads to the perpetual delay? It’s kind of tough to self-diagnose. How about this: if the lack of immediate closure following a solid week of pre-show hype, maybe you should come to the next show, huh? No, I’m not ignoring you, non-New Yorkers. Who doesn’t love a grueling cross state bus ride?

Anyway, the goods:

Crystal Stilts

The Crystal Stilts were about as cool as possible. In Galapagos’ cavernous main room, their minimal sound became overwhelmingly big. I don’t mean to equate sonically filling a room with anthemic preening. The unsung Brooklyn band was aloof as possible, pushing Liam Gallagher levels of hands-in-pockets nonchalance. Echo and reverb were magnified tenfold though, to the point that low-key iciness became all-encompassing. From the opening VU cover to the heighth of their self-titled EP’s "Crippled Croon," the sound was consistently dark, but far from lifeless. It was far too snappy to constitute a perpetual mope. Also, a special technical accomodation is awarded on the basis of the ingenious "let’s just lay a tambourine on top of this standing drum and pretend we can simultaneously thwack tom and cymbals" set up.

The Stilts’ aren’t one of these Brooklyn bands who you won’t be able to avoid due to pervasive PR blasts, so do yourselves a favor and make an effort to seek them out if the name happens to cross your path.

Titus Andronicus

As much as we were all enjoying the disaffected badassery that the Stilts had to offer, there were no complaints once young Titus Andronicus climbed the stage with hearts pin snugly on-sleeves. This band rocks. Hard. Every song in what frontman Patrick Stickles described earlier in the evening as a "hits" set was drenched in flailing enthusiastic energy. Three guitars, a keyboard, and a shrieking New Jersey-ite up to no good is quite the potential powderkeg. The band has previously been complemented as a drunken bloody mess. Having had a bit of control over the drink tickets this evening, I’d say that’s just projection based on their lack of a refreshing lack of self-conscious inhibition.

The high water mark of a positively flooded set was probably the Pogues-lilting but Wolf Parade-pounding self-titled anthem, "Titus Andronicus." This is the number that gives Patrick his permission to stalk the crowd screaming to people that their "life is over" (see post photo 1). His bandmates--clapping and shouting behind him--let him play grim reaper quite affectively. But I despite the easily assumed authority, it was charming that an attempt to act out the song’s opening "throw my guitar down on the floor" was made impossible by a stubbornly placed mic stand and a strap that just wouldn’t fucking give. As far as subsequent magic moments went, the part in "Fear and Loathing in Mahwah, New Jersey" when the band pulled to a halt, simply to scream "Fuck You!" in unison, was hard to eclipse on a pure punk scale (of 1 to OI !).

The actually quite pleasant lads don’t seem to know when their Troubleman debut, The Airing of Greivances is slated to hit shelves. So obviously that much anticipated news will have to wait for a later date. Perhaps their April 13th gig at the Knitting Factory will provide a much-needed update.

Eamon Hamilton

In retrospect we probably did Eamon no favors by slating him to play amid the still smoldering wreckage of Titus Andronicus’ energy bomb. A more prototypical singer/songwriter, armed only with a weathered acoustic guitar and a microphone, might have shrunken away from the challenge. Our Eamon responded with a surprising bug eyed intensity. The spiky rock numbers from the Brakes’ songbook were delivered with full-throated gusto. The sweet ballads were aided by a lonesome vulnerability. Really, it was all unreasonably compelling for such an unadorned set.

Spontaneous decision makers heed my notice: Eamon plays tonight at Manhattan’s Lit Lounge.

So thanks to Galapagos, the bands, DJs Professor David Klein and the Rich Girls are Weeping, and especially our very kind and thoroughly rocked patrons. There’s a bit of a quandary as to when the next Neon Lights evening will go down, but trust that wheels are in motion and the congregation will be thoroughly preached towards when the theoretical show is actually approaching. If you’ve got a bright idea that you’d like to run past me, hit me up at neon lights nyc at gmail dot com.

Much more photo-documentation after the J...

The final performer on Saturday's kick off to the 2008 Neon Lights calendar is Eamon Hamilton, better known to the blog-music devotee as singer and songwriter for Brakes (you can triple that if you feel so inclined). The Brighton, UK band is signed to Rough Trade in the UK, which has brought us such flashes in the pan as the Smiths. He wrote one of the most laser focused political songs of these dark days containing only the lyrics, "Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney/ Stop being such a dick." Their latest record, 2007's The Beatific Visions drew Trans-Atlantic praise that most bands would murder for in publications like NME, Spin, Pitchfork, and the BBC. With that record's successor on his mind already, Eamon's solo set will see some newbies mixed in among the proven oldies. He's been touring this set around the UK, opening for his old band mates British Sea Power, and occasionally wrestling behind them on national television. This will be the first time this material will be played in this manner, for US audiences. Not too bad for our first ever European import.

A smattering of audio-visual evidence for review:

Brakes - "Hold Me in the River"

In which our man, the pugilist, tries his hand at suburban boxing and gratuitously mentions Scarlett Johansson.

Brakes - "Hold Me in the River"

Brakes - "Hi How Are You?/"Heard About Your Band"
(live @ Trash, London)

This first rant against mid-song audience chatter will likely greet any patrons whose late night drinking has effected their internal volume control. And the second war against incessant self-promotion likely applies to Williamsburg in even greater depth than in did to London.

Brakes - "Beatific Visions"
(live @ Chop Suey, Seattle, WA)

You'd think that the song above, a sweet melodic pop song, would translate best to a man-and-his-guitar revamp. Or perhaps it'll be the tender country winders such as the one below that are best suited to the troubadour act...

Brakes - "Be On Your Side"

We'll all find out together on Saturday night/ Sunday morning, I suppose.

And even though I don't think he was with them at this point, how about a song from Eamon's running buddies British Sea Power, just for kicks.

British Sea Power - "Fear of Drowning" (early single version)

Remember folks that you still have a pair of opportunities to gain free admission to the extravaganza, and see Eamon along with Crystal Stilts and Titus Andronicus. For the first, check the details at Prefix and for the second just avert your attention to a previous post on this very site. Your reasons for resistance are looking ever thinner...

This morning, over on Prefix, I offered the site's registered users a chance to come to this weekend's much discussed Neon Lights show. While signing up to be a user there has plenty of benefits beyond my little show on Saturday, I'd be remiss to not offer our own dedicated readership a similar chance without even minimal strings attached.

So, if you want to see Eamon Hamilton, Titus Andronicus, and Crystal Stilts at Galapagos on March 1st, for the grand price of nada, all you gotta do is drop us a line at neonlightsnyc at gmail.com with the subject line of "Entering contest now." We'll pick one at random and grant thee a plus one to score you some points with the ladies/fellas. Fair enough? Have at it...

As you know, the first Neon Lights show of 2008 is going down this Saturday, at Galapagos in Williamsburg. The second in our slate of Saturday night bands, in Shakespeare's/New Jersey's vicious Goth-slayer, Titus Andronicus. This slightly folk, sort of punk, definitely crowd-awing band of youths has been playing all around the Tri-State area in advance of the moment when indie stalwart Troubleman Records releases their debut, The Airing of Greivances, and they can seriously blow us all off for good.

For the here and now, a couple:

Titus Andronicus - "Titus Andronicus"

This self-mythologizing number sounds like a drunken fistfight between two long time friends that briefly becomes a teary-eyed man hug, before returning to sloppy haymakers. Also, kind of like Wolf Parade being tricked into playing a St. Patrick's Day Parade. And why is it so perversely fun to chant along to the climactic hand-clap accentuated breakdown? Maybe because screaming "Your life is over!" at anonymous members of the crowd implicitly suggests that yours is still chugging along quite nicely. So why's everyone else chanting it in your direction as well?

Titus Andronicus - "Upon Viewing Bruegel's "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" "

I'm not certain how Dutch Renaissance man (as in a man who lived in the Renaissance, I don't know if he could do a lot of other stuff) Pieter Bruegel reflects the exalted Jersey ennui of this 2006 EP track. Are there mythic beings drowning to general indifference in the Passaic on a regular basis? It's another raggedly melodic punk basher whose lyrical dread is performed with enough cymbal bashing brio to trick you in to believing that the whole sun-buzzing endeavor might not melt your wings this time, if you want it badly enough. Or maybe it's an expression of the dread resulting from lugging that god damn plow around everyday while golden boys in the distance get to splash around in the water all day. William Carlos Williams was a fan of that painting too, and he was a bitter man who ate others' cherished fruit for kicks. So maybe it's just a favorite among artistic types with issues to work out. Thrash therapy was the pharmacist's prescription here.

My biased words are echoed by triumphant trumpeting of the band that is starting to filter in from all corners:

- Pitchfork: "...perfectly clangorous pop songs..."

- Brooklyn Vegan ( in fairness, more of a spare, sorta neutral mention that prompted the band to post about it on their MySpace under the title: "Brooklyn Vegan to Titus Andronicus: "You Exist")

- Said the Gramophone: "...shirtless, jangle-barking..."

- Oh My Rockness: "...so damn delightful, it's enough to soften even the shells of die-hard Spiderland fans."

- Breakthru Radio: "...about to explode."

Preceding Titus into the void will of course be Crystal Stilts, to whom you've recently become acquainted. After them will be Brakes' Eamon Hamilton who we've yet to discuss at length. If you're the find your Christmas presents early type, you can get all the info you need right now, right here. But I'll be filling in the gaps very soon because, as you know, it goes down this Saturday.