Sweet and hard, like the candies that bear their name, Dum Dum Girls defy homological description. Cutesy goth? They own it.

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There’s a bubbling brook, chirping birds, a single set of footfalls rustling softly through a forest: soothing sounds comprise the entirety of “There is a Great Sadness to Your Wisdom,” and as those lonely footfalls become yours, you are aware of the sadness and grow a little uneasy, unsure of just how far along you are in this journey and what is yet to come.

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Wearing a white wisp of a dress matching her dainty demeanor, the arrestingly attractive Kazu Makino and equally stunning identical twin Italian brothers Simone and Amedeo Pace commanded immediate attention as they delved into the slow-burning “Black Guitar” off their latest effort, Penny Sparkle.

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In support of the new record, Mogwai’s current tour of the western and southern parts of the U.S. included a stop at a full-capacity Mayan Theatre in Los Angeles, where its droney, pulsating electronic-synth set spanned the band’s many albums to the obvious delight of many Angeleno fans.

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The Jan. 15 concert of the LA Phil performing Mahler’s 9th was my first real encounter with The Dude. I’m not going to pretend I am an expert in the classical realm, but the musical experience was exquisite, and I can say in all certainty that the real-life experience is more fulfilling than watching on a screen.

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Her appearance at the Grammy Museum’s Clive Davis Theater solely featured conversation. To a sold-out audience of just 200 lucky guests, Yoko’s intimate discussion touched on myriad topics, from the expected—updates on her new art and musical works—to the unexpected, like her respect for Lady Gaga.

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When the moment finally arrived, girls and guys alike squealed in ecstatic glee. Forgoing sidemen this time around, the duo of guitarist Mike Stroud and bass/synth man Evan Mast performed by their lonesomes as writhing silhouetted twins against a backdrop of swirly screen projections and stage smoke.

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After the departure of wonderfully dreamy openers Grizzly Bear, upon the first footfalls of Phoenix to the stage, the entire audience merged as one oddly shaped amoeba and leaped to its feet. Groups of friends oscillated arm in arm, hollering along to their favorite tunes, and not an ass landed back down on the bench from whence it sprung for the entire hour-and-a-half set.

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Nebulous crossovers aside, both bands are, in their own right, wicked (they say that out in the desert, right?)—but man, are their fans scary. Spotted in the Echoplex swell: Hawaiian shirts, black socks and white sneakers; pseudo biker chicks with small leather skirts and big ’80s hair; overgrown men thrusting metal devil horns stageward un-ironically.

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Even after songs like “I’m Sorry I Love You,” “Walk a Lonely Road” and “I Don’t Really Love You Anymore,” I came away from the Magnetic Fields performance at the Wilshire Ebell with a calming sense of serenity. Or perhaps it was just sleepiness. The show itself was pretty uneventful, but Stephin Merritt’s soothing baritone vocals could be extolling the virtues of flaying live puppies and I’d still walk away feeling good.

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