Partly because we were a stone’s throw from Hollywood, it was interesting to see a person do something creative purely for the pleasure of it. When a creative pursuit is generated from pleasure and the result objectively sucks, the pursuit is usually called self-indulgent. But when the result gives pleasure to others, the pursuit is a rare, generous thing. Allen is 76. His last film grossed over $50 million. He doesn’t seem too thrilled to be around a lot of humans, with their pointy haircuts and phone cameras probably stabbing his personal space all the damn time. He does not need to leave the house. But he likes to play. He likes to spread the word about this lovely thing.

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What Milagres has done (which only occurred once, I bet, in the brilliantly warped Japanese movie Funky Forest: First Contact) is set to music the precise feeling of sinking into a mossy clearing in the woods at 4 a.m., on purpose.

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There are exactly two categories of people that can’t enjoy a MEN show. You might think these categories have something to do with political leanings, or sexual orientation. They don’t. It’s not hard to imagine Kathy Griffin, Willow Palin, and all of the members of a large delegation of international Olympic ski teams spontaneously group-hugging [...]

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There’s no doubt that fans attached to the jangly cyclothemia that characterized a lot of Destroyer’s past efforts, as well as Bejar’s idiosyncratic New Pornographers and Swan Lake songs, will feel alienated by the new sound. But those who jump in, as the Troubadour audience ecstatically did, will find themselves inside one of these movies, instead of in front of the screen, smirking knowingly as Kathleen Turner gets seductively swallowed by an effervescent taco of fog. There’s a reverence here that echoes, more than anything, Lynch’s obsession with Laura Palmer.

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He came equipped with an arsenal of sequencers and synths (which he wielded skillfully, like nunchucks!) and a rock band composed of five other dudes. “I don’t understand,” my friend said. “Six dour French guys aren’t that different than one dour French guy.” To be fair, the drummer didn’t seem morose at all.

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Like an overcast Sunday or a poorly-timed stiff drink or the process of filling out the paperwork for a loved one’s emergency orotracheal intubation, Eric Lindley’s songs have the power to infuse the stretch of time they occupy with a sadness that’s incidental but devastating. He sings with a hushed, almost guarded apprehension, as though he’s trying to keep from bothering someone.

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Much of the press accompanying headliner Lissie’s music describes it as “beachy” and “sun-drenched.” These are lies, though they could serve as excellent descriptors for her hair. Her voice—a powerful contralto in the vein of Patsy Cline—knows its way around an echo pedal. Imagine a less passive Mazzy Star. Actually, don’t. Instead, look up her performance of “Wedding Bells,” the devastating Hank Williams song that opened up tonight’s set.

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Moore’s frequent aw-shucks shoulder-shrugs accompanied gentle apologies for her earlier work, and admissions that she’s still something of an apprentice to Viola and other musical veterans and friends. When asked about influences, the mentions of Wings-era McCartney and Bette Midler somehow sounded perfectly sensible coming from her, but in retrospect, it’s impossible to imagine those two names in any similar context, other than the most exciting potential cage-match the world has ever known. And if anyone can coax them into it, it’s Mandy Leigh Moore. Daaaamn. Girl could charm the jaws off a shark.

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The Echoplex tends to play up its murkiness well—generally, it’s too dark to tell what color your drink is, or if your date is male, or human. Tonight’s show was so dark that Dan Bejar, a.k.a. Destroyer, appeared to be candlelit. It fit. I can’t say for certain what the primary objective was in seating the mostly crazy-eyed and adoring audience in rows right up against the stage. The result was a wonderful, docile sort of intimacy, which was exponentially multiplied by Bejar’s solo performance—he played acoustic versions of songs that on record are often as densely orchestral as this sort of (indie rock? hooky Bowie-esque Spanish guitar balladry? “European Blues,” as he calls it?) music gets.

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