Caroline Weeks had Spaceland sitting cross-legged on the floor with hands politely folded in their laps. One fellow with candle wax melted atop his head perched on a stool near the stage—were those tears gathered at his eyes? Or makeup? His named turned out to be Debutante, of San Francisco. He performed with opener Universe. I wish I caught their act, but to enter a room in the throes of Caroline Weeks was a riveting, awkward moment worth cherishing. It’s rare you walk into a concert and feel like excusing your tardiness to the tea party. This soul-searching tea party was hosted by a lady who earned her microphone time playing with Bat For Lashes. Ms. Weeks is a small, elfin, woman, wearing sandals, disheveled hair, and an old lady sweater she might have held close to absorb the life lessons of she who wore it beforehand. Plucking another rickety, almost weepy, strummed tune, Weeks announced, “This is the setting of an Emily Dickinson po-eem…”—which easily clinched the overall vibe. Caroline Weeks made us feel as singular as a handwritten poem hidden under a pillow.

If Caroline Weeks is a raindrop sliding down an old window, Warpaint is the storm brewing off at sea causing ill weather on land many miles ashore. A friend told me watching Warpaint fills her with dark thoughts. What, with all the throbbing bass and moaning cries that pace across your face from ear to throat to unkempt brow—maybe what she says is worth noting. It can be a challenge to listen, but then again Warpaint is possibly messing with some hocus pocus. There’s nothing pretty about the band except their cool faces. Instead, they want to enter your ear canal and scrape the wax blocking access to some hard facts of existence. Warpaint has the primal thing going on. It’s the baby’s first cry of what the fuck am I alive what the fuck ok cool I guess.

—Daiana Feuer