As a great tumbleweed of a beard flourished an arsenal of jangly percussion – always one instrument in each hand – Luke Top’s lazy, sunburnt folk sifted into the Troubadour.  A vaguely tropical flavor; the possibility that there may be sand in my shoes, though I don’t remember visiting any beaches.  I cursed my choice of drink: whiskey; it was all wrong.  In the middle of the empty dance floor, some dude in black contorted his torso indolently.  The music doesn’t seem meant for this type of response, though.  It wants to inspire palm-trees swaying, or feet dangling out a window on desert roads, or smoking pot on the porch while discussing succulents.  Sly or uncomfortable, maybe, Luke Top calls the dude out, simultaneously encouraging and admonishing him.  Most everyone else just lets the haze sink in, riding it out into a humid sort of clarity, a balmy lull.

Still equatorial, but infused with frenetic, stinging jabs, Vieux Farka Toure’s reverb engorged polyrhythmia disbanded the lethargy and summoned the crowd to his feet.  Despite the gnarled twitch of Vieux’s playing and an introduction by Henry Rollins, the breakneck riffs did not defuse the twizzled hippy arms and catastrophic ass-wagging of smug baby-boomers that seem to accompany any performance that is unfortunate enough to be classified as ‘world music.’  Still, movement seems to be the music’s demand and long, jammy digressions make me question whether the twirling and regrettable attempts at ‘tribal’ dancing weren’t deserved.  Vieux himself seemed amused, both smiling and smirking as ripsaw progressions met with intensifying, pounding drums, refusing, at least, to emphasize any sort of weary, heal-the-world philosophy.  Instead he stretched the edges of the music, often barreling into unexpected realms of noise and punk, in rampant economy.  By the end, something had happened; the baby-boomers had dispersed and the squirming, flowing hippie dancing had become something more urgent and agitated.