Ramon Sampson, the 19 year-old winner of Guitar Center’s 2010 Drum Off, kicked out the beat to “Smooth Criminal” as he coyly slipped on a single white glove. Michael McGrath played a lightning-fast portion of his set on his feet and only on the cymbals. Troy Molsberry tossed and caught his drumsticks so many times while playing that I couldn’t tell if I was feeling excitement or nauseating terror that he would drop one.

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The songs are beautiful in the way that the warm blood running down your face after you pierced your eyes with the thorn of the long-dead rose your wayward lover gave you before they disappeared could be beautiful. Realizing that these sometimes centuries-old songs carry the weight and unrelenting ache of rejection from a time when you had to wait through months, maybe years of ceaseless, one-sided hope, giddiness, doubt, obsession, cajoling, bargaining, prayer and fantasy to find out that (s)he’s just not that into you, explains in some small measure the visceral, wistful despair of Those Who Are in Love.

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The Patterns banged loudly against each other with staccato, tinny thuds. Some issued viscous sighs as they sucked smaller pieces through themselves. Others, wedged against a million frenetic polygons, belched victorious brass shouts as they pushed their way back into the whirlwind. The boy was overcome. The Random Patterns would slow their circuit periodically, and he would be deceived into thinking the crush of color and sound was over, but then the pounding, melodious, buzzing, sizzling tornado would begin anew.

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CocoRosie is Bianca and Sierra Casady and any collaborators who get caught in nearby clouds. They have released a special tour-only EP this summer and Bianca speaks now about Moondog, meditation and getting misquoted in the worst possible place. This interview by Ayse Arf.

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She laid her poetry upon us like a mystic laying hands on pilgrims, reminding us we are slobbering, laughing, dreaming and alive, however painful that can get. And pain seeps through songs like “Pissing in a River” and “Beneath the Southern Cross,” but still something as trite and often blankly appealed to as hope overrides all of that. Even in “Free Money,” where the protagonist clearly can’t afford any of the things they dream about, waxes poetic about the sweetness of those dreams.

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The Warlocks swept on stage at Spaceland shrouded in scarlet-tinged smoke and dressed (mostly) in black. It was all very serious. No one spoke. People shifted from foot to foot expectantly. Throats cleared. Then the first droning notes from singer Bobby Hecksher’s guitar slithered between us like a python, heavy.

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Tom Jones is still one stylish devil. The tight Technicolor pantsuits and billowing shirts of yore have given way to a more contemporary all black ensemble. Not to worry, though. As soon as the initially staid-looking Jones broke into his signature sexy dance moves, coat flaps flew aside to reveal a sassy crimson silk lining and a panel of something sparkly on either side of the buttons running down his sheer black shirt.

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The four-piece band sang of serving Christ and Satan, being purified by the fire of latter and given life by the water of the former; Armageddon—Abaddon—and repentance, Jehovah’s strength and Lucifer’s light; and of the Process’ appropriately Old Testament-y prophecy of the end of the world. Unlike the Old Testament, when the world is in flames, blood runs in the streets and we’re plagued by pestilence, hatred and misery, Processians “shall conquer fear with love.” I’m glad my new religion is so awesome.

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A docile crowd can send tens of thousands of watts scattering in the Bolton Canyon like so much piss in the wind and leave you feeling like you’re looking at a snow globe through a pinhole with headphones on. Last night’s crowd, fortunately, was anything but. Depeche Mode’s first night at the Bowl drew the faithful—on their feet and dancing jerkily in the allotted 2’x3’ box of personal space for almost the entirety of the 2-hour show.

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Jazz arkestra Watts Ensemble’s Crime & Time introduces itself with a ringing in your ears not unlike a gentler version of post-concert hearing loss—either as a disclaimer or an aural warm-up to the 13 musicians and 18 or so instruments they play (which grace the album cover in a stylish Blue Note-esque portrait) all about to drop in on your party with the most delicious 31-layer dip that you’ve ever tasted.

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