Club Nokia is a terrible place to get to early. The bar is expensive as hell and the shows always start late, but in order to ensure entrance to the pit area in front of the stage you have to be one of the first few hundred in to get a special wristband. Opt for the VIP pass so you can grab a seat on the balcony through the openers…or wear comfortable shoes.

The pre-Ratatat entertainment began with a DJ who was clearly a sadist, pumping techno dance beats and working such talents as his 15-minute Beastie Boys remix of “Sabotage” through the incredibly loud speakers for one very long hour. As the pit filled up, a claustrophobic panic attack loomed in my very near future, so I left my photographer sardined in the front for a comfortable bird’s-eye view seat in the “VIP” balcony, along with 500 other very important people. It was a wise decision; Ratatat didn’t go on until after 11pm. The first opener took to the stage at 9. A mix of surf, noise and pop crooning, Bobby Birdman was just plain terrible, but the film clips from blaxploitation films and funny animal pictures projecting behind him sufficed as good entertainment. Next, Massachusetts pop rock outfit DOM delivered a set full of long hair and long guitar solos. Their departure was met with rapacious howls of “RAT-A-TAT! RAT-A-TAT!” by the all-ages crowd, up past their bedtime, growing impatient and a little sleepy waiting for the headline performers.

Ratatat by Tim Drummond

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. The full-throttle set was heavy on the new stuff from their fourth and latest record, LP4, including “Bob Gandhi,” “Neckbrace,” “Drugs” and “Grape Juice City.” But the biggest WHOOO!’s come from their older, more familiar tunes like “Wildcat” from Classics and “17 Years” and “Loud Pipes” from their 2004 self-titled debut. The house-bringing-down final encore had Stroud and Mast bombardiering with tom-toms and mallets through the percussion-driven “Bare Feast.”

—Linda Rapka

Having seen New York’s rock-driven electronic powerhouse Ratatat seven times (and counting), I’ve come to expect nothing short of greatness from guitarist Mike Stroud and bassist/synthman Evan Mast. No surprises at this show; the duo delivered their usual rock solid, booty-grinding performance. The Palladium, having recently undergone yet another renovation, is becoming an increasingly annoying venue (bag checks and full-body pat downs, seriously?). Regular concertgoers and press alike were subject to impolite security restricting floor access even to those of us with appropriate wristbands. But if you’re not averse to chatting up heavyset men in yellow jackets, you’ll end up having a good time in front of the stage. Before Ratatat delivered their highly anticipated set, the crowd suffered through the ridiculous white-boy rapping of Despot (“I eat donuts with grown-ups”… wha?) and was growing increasingly impatient during Tussle’s tepid not-so-experimental electronic set, the end of which was droned out by ravenous chants of “RATATAT! RATATAT!” from die-hards on the floor.

Gracing the stage a full half-hour late, the duo proved worth the wait. They started strong with the bombastic “Shiller” off their latest album, LP3, and never let up. The audience was almost as interesting as the show itself—mistaking the Palladium for Coachella Valley, a mysterious dude with an endless supply of water bottles wandered through the crowd squirting liquid into the gaping mouths of people apparently unconcerned with what else might be contained within the free water. Ratatat delivered favorites like “Crips” and “Loud Pipes” from their 2004 self-titled debut Wildcat, and “Lex” from their sophomore release Classics, and “Mirando” and “Shempi” from their latest. The set was full of material old and new—“full” being the operative word. My feet were shrieking bloody murder by the end of the looooong hour-and-a-half set, and by the time “17 Years” exploded from the stage, I was ecstatic—not only because it’s my fave Ratatat tune, but because it always signals the end of the show.

—Linda Rapka