For better or worse, Modern Vampires of the City has helped me fall in love with Vampire Weekend all over again. A few months after the release of Contra– somewhere between the tenth and ten-thousandth repeat of “Horchata” on my iPod– I began to adopt a few hater tendencies towards the preppy, undeniably peppy quartet.

Of course, these qualities are what attracted me to the band in the first place; I mean, “A-Punk” was my flip-phone ring tone for much of the year 2008.  At the time, I was a college freshman, and related wholeheartedly to the band’s NYC-via-the Burbs, cool New England collegiate vibe,  from the Mystic seaport references to the opening falsettos of “Oxford Comma” (hello, English major here).

Now, though, it seems even haters have a hard time hating on Vampire Weekend. Modern Vampires of the City is just too good, with the band’s spiky, spiffy energy and lyrical prowess having only improved and developed over time. It could be Ezra Koenig’s musical and personal maturity. It could be the lines that completely gut me, like “Nobody knows what the future holds/And it’s bad enough just getting old.” I don’t know, nor do I really care. For now, I’ve put away my snooty, black-framed music critic glasses, and simply plan to enjoy. Vampire Weekend are one band that always make it pretty easy.

But I digress. David Bowie takes a stab at Catholicism in his new video for “The Next Day,” which is loaded with enough Catholic iconography and so-called blasphemy to leave even the most lapsed among us cringing. After featuring long-lost twin Tilda Swinton in his last clip, Bowie has now enlisted the help of actors Gary Oldman and (the ever-stunning) Marion Cotillard for a bit of sacred/profane line-toeing. The Catholic League (whatever that is) has already dissed “The Next Day” in a major way, calling Bowie a “switch-hitting, bisexual senior citizen.” Ironically, I think Bowie would consider that to be not just an accurate description of himself, but also quite the compliment.

Because when you really get down to it, “The Next Day” isn’t so much about Catholicism. What it’s really referencing is the hidden hypocrisy found in us all, with the Catholic Church simply serving as an ideal setting. Would perfect, pithy lines like “They can work with satan while they dress like the Saints” sound as sharp if delivered at a car wash? I don’t think so. As ever, Bowie is brilliant, and if people don’t get that– Catholics or not– then they probably just shouldn’t listen.

Socrates died in the fucking gutter.

Parquet Courts’ Light Up Gold has been one of this year’s most talked-about indie rock albums, and one that’s been on heavy rotation for me since its early 2013 release. I was super pumped for PC’s opening set, especially since I made sure to don my favorite dancing shoes (which, let me tell you, were put to good use). Backed by a drummer, Max Savage, who packs a shocking amount of power into each punch, the courageous trio of Andrew Savage, Sean Yeaton, and Austin Brown were like the first line of defense in a battle, all lined up and ready to aim. Parquet Courts’ weapon of choice? Their signature Brooklyn-by-way-of-Texas brand of cleverness, wit, and sarcasm, coupled with an obvious amount of sheer skill. It’s an unbeatable combination on record, and even more so when translated to the stage.

Incredibly tight, polished, and loud (!), each song the band played was cooler and catchier than the last. Head-banger “Master of My Craft” really got the crowd going, as did two-and-a-half minute charmer “Borrowed Time,” a perfect punk dance jam for the ages. When performed live, even more mellow tracks like “N Dakota” were fierce, fun and groove-worthy. But where was “Stoned & Starving?” I would have liked to hear it, if only for the Ridgewood, Queens, shout-out. Regardless, the “boos” that signaled the announcement of their final song made it clear that Parquet Courts left their audience wanting more.

killer knee socks, Mish.

After a quick beer break, I returned to the stage to catch White Lung. The Vancouver hardcore quartet are led by their charismatic frontwoman, Mish Way, whose powerful presence alone is enough to command an audience. When it comes to punk rock, White Lung are all about returning to basics: riffs that slice and dice like a ginsu knife, drums that release like rapid-fire gunshot, and Mish’s signature screeching vocals. It was a great, quick set, made up mostly of tracks from 2012’s impressive collection of fast, ferocious floor-shakers, Sorry.

shit was dark, yo.

Later– as if everything prior had been a stroll through the park with a basket of fucking kittens– the mood was changed considerably as headliners Iceage took the stage. Mish Way hit the nail right on the head when she referred to the band as “precious Danish angels,” despite the fact that I almost lost my life during the initial mosh pit explosion at the beginning of their set. Amidst even the most riotous chaos, though, Iceage remain delicate and ethereal. In spite of the mind-numbing noise, the band are relatively quiet, taking the stage in subtle stride and exiting so innocuously that we audience members were left scratching our heads.

While Iceage are, no doubt, an impressive whole, baby-faced leader Elias Bender Rønnenfelt is clearly a force to be reckoned with. One moment, he’s screaming into the mic with the violent gust of a stormy wind; the next, he’s falling helplessly into the audience like an injured bird. In a thoroughly brilliant move, he shrouded the room in almost complete darkness, politely asking if the lights could be dimmed before the band ripped into their set. In fact, that’s pretty much all Elias said, besides the announcement of each song title in an almost laughably tired, melodramatic fashion. From behind dead eyes, Elias sings like he’s angry at his audience, or worse– disappointed in them.

It soon became obvious that all the clean, shiny polish of Iceage’s recent sophomore LP, You’re Nothing, is completely and immediately stripped away when played– or rather, demolished– live. Entombed within a setting of grim, dark shadows, tracks like “Everything Drifts,” “Coalition,” and “You’re Nothing” were all blended into one dark, menacing assault on the senses. It was a short, but vehemently sweet, set. With one final, piercing stare, Iceage were gone, disappeared into the darkness for good. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

Where to begin? It’s been five long years since Daft Punk’s mind-blowing performance at Brooklyn’s KeySpan Park– arguably the best live show of my life– during their decade-in-the-making Alive 2007 tour. It’s been even longer than that since 2005’s Human After All, the duo’s last (and thoroughly under-appreciated) studio album. Now, the enigmatic electronic deities plot their return with Random Access Memories, which is already shaping up as nothing short of epic.

How do I know this? Take this weekend’s one-minute teaser promo– unleashed without warning upon unsuspecting Saturday Night Live viewers like a ravenous beast from its cage– featuring Pharrell Williams and Nile Rodgers. “Get Lucky” is (thus far) 60 seconds of sleek, soulful pop perfection, tinged with that signature Daft Punk synth-house sound. But how do they do it, time and time again? Sadly, I cannot answer this. Maybe Daft Punk simply are robots after all.

So far, I’m on my 20th repeat of the day. How ’bout you?

I am, of course, talking about the girls here– most definitely not the guys. As Hannah, Marnie, Shoshanna and Jessa continued to disappoint, Charlie, Ray, Eli, and yes, even Adam, were each responsible for restoring my faith in “Girls.” That’s why I, like many, was especially gutted to hear that Christopher Abbott would be departing the series. This recent, unfortunate turn of events has, however, presented the perfect opportunity to chat more about the boys of “Girls,” who have provided the show’s second season with its best moments, by far.

With the exception of a few poignant, brilliant episodes (“I! Don’t! Care!”, anyone?), our four favorite female Brooklynites faltered quite often throughout season two of “Girls.” Now, let me get one thing straight– I LIKE a character who falters. Perfect characters are not just unrealistic, but also boring, existing only within the realm of daytime soaps or Taylor Swift radio ballads. In particular, Hannah’s flaws have always been attractive to me; as a fellow twenty-something New York writer, I’ve always related to her quirks and struggles, even when they began to verge on the extreme. And to be honest with you, I was very much looking forward to life sucking for Marnie this season, as last season things were a bit too comfortable for the perfect gallery princess.

In the beginning, things did suck for Marnie this season– she lost her job, began to regret dumping her boyfriend, Charlie, and experienced a falling-out with Hannah. However, instead of eliciting our sympathy (as she had done before), Marnie made it far too easy to hate her just a little bit more each week. By the time the season finale rolled around, I was really hoping that Marnie would trip in her heels and get run over by a cab. I mean, come on; that cringe-worthy “Stronger” performance at Charlie’s work party? Her bizarre relationship with that guy from Lonely Island? That fucking ridiculous hostess dress from Mars, those obnoxious crocodile tears, not to mention the fact that everything ALWAYS has to be about her? It was all simply too much to bear, but it pales in comparison to the final episode’s nauseatingly neat fairy-tale “reconciliation” with Charlie. HOW/WTF/WHY would Charlie ever get back with Marnie after the way she treated him? In real life, a boy– or, let me just say it, MAN– of his caliber would never put up with so much shit, even for a hot girl. Charlie is an excellent, interesting character, but Dunham really dropped the ball, which I’m assuming is why Abbott decided to leave the show. Even the best actors must get tired playing the punching bag week after week.

Which brings me to Ray. Who didn’t love that scene between Ray and Shoshanna on the subway platform? Alex Karpovsky really hit his stride this season, and I’m hoping to see much more of him next year (despite the unfortunate dumping situation). I have a feeling that Shoshanna will eventually regret her decision to break up with Ray, because you know, he’s like, ambitious now! And he cries with dogs on park benches, which is actually pretty deep.

But what happens when a character is all-at-once charming, terrifying, and whole-heartedly polarizing? That, of course, is Adam, portrayed with almost menacing brilliance by Adam Driver, whose evocative performances were responsible for the most thrilling highs and lows of “Girls” season two. It’s impossible to discuss the guys of “Girls” without mentioning “THE” television incident of 2013, which shocked and horrified men, women, and children– actually, hopefully not children– from all corners of the world.

Did Adam actually rape Natalia? I don’t think so. Was what he did gross, and demeaning, and absolutely unbearable to watch? Without question. That is, I believe, also the point, and I don’t feel the episode shied away from conveying that fact. But where Hannah’s whole book deal/OCD scenario was supposed to give the character a new dimension of complexity, Adam managed to do that in pretty much one episode. I think, like a lot of people, Adam sort of hates himself, and hates himself for how he treated Natalia. That’s why he (literally) went running back to Hannah, a girl who doesn’t have her shit together at all, and for whom he can act as the bizarre, twisted version of a Knight in Shirtless Armor. It’s not good. It’s not bad. It is what it is. The finale’s closing scene was definitely cheese-tastic in the most saccharine of ways, but it still managed to set up a promising story for season three.

The one and only girl of “Girls” who didn’t totally suck this season– and believe me, I never thought I’d say this in my life– was everyone’s favorite “Sex and the City” superfan, Shoshanna. I didn’t much like Shoshanna in season one, if only because she seemed like someone I could never be friends with, ever. Despite this, Zosia Mamet’s portrayal of the character slowly but surely began growing on me, especially as Shoshanna became more and more complex with each episode. I still can’t deal with her hair (WHAT is she even doing with a stale donut plastered to the side of her head) or her prim, polished apartment that looks like the bedroom of a rich 12-year-old from suburban Connecticut. But we’ll see, Shoshanna. We’ll just have to see.

Nicely done, sirs.

So what I’m trying to say here, Lena, is that I’m hoping you’ll (theoretically) shape up in time for season three. Until then, I’ll be tuning into “Girls” each week for those bad, brilliant boys of yours.

But that wasn’t this morning’s only treat. In addition to their full LP, Wavves also released the video to title track “Afraid of Heights” via Pitchfork. The clip’s ill-fated bar hookup between Nathan Williams and bandmate Stephen Pope (clad in a dress, wig, and elegant pearls, naturally) is just ridiculous enough to avoid verging on stupid. Plus, the whole thing looks like it cost about twenty dollars and a six-pack to make, which definitely contributes to the video’s genius. Enjoy the entire tragic, twisted romance below.

The Knife take subtle stabs at issues of freedom, power, and gender roles in their new video for “A Tooth For An Eye.” The single, and its accompanying video, arrive shortly after “Full of Fire” reminded just how much we’ve missed Karin Dreijer-Andersson and Olof Dreijer in the past seven years. (Well, Karin has given us Fever Ray, which is great, but not the same.)

“A Tooth For An Eye” is alarmingly excellent, to the point where it’s almost scary. Dynamic and impassioned, the song succeeds brilliantly in its attempt at being both fierce and fiery and impossibly chilly. Shaking the Habitual, out April 9, is most definitely my most anticipated album of 2013 (thus far).

Indeed, what a sad, lonely, innocuous world it would be without The Knife.

Even before the release of their debut, Remember When, in 2012, The Orwells had much of the internet’s panties in a bunch over their respective ages and skill set. How could it be that high schoolers made music so fresh, so classically cool? Remember When quickly became one of my favorite albums of the year, and it’s definitely remained that way. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t play at least one of its tracks, which can inspire feelings as diverse as nostalgic longing (“Never Ever”) and unashamed, skivvies-style bedroom dancing (“Suspended”). So when I had the chance to see The Orwells live at Santos Party House, I just couldn’t pass it up.

The diverse crowd at Santos ranged from experienced punk rock connoisseurs to pre-pubescent kids out way past their bedtimes, which is actually fitting, if you think about it. Unassuming in both dress and demeanor, The Orwells took the stage and immediately ripped into single “Mallrats (La La La).” Within seconds, it was obvious– these kids know their shit. The venue’s tiny stage could barely contain the band’s surprisingly seasoned prowess; think quick, powerful drumming, guitars and bass that work together in near-perfect unison, and a singer, Mario Cuomo, who revels in his own unique brand of charismatic madness. Of course, a great band is nothing without its frontman (or woman), and Cuomo knows how to get the job done. Hesitantly, he hides from behind curtains of long, blond hair, until finally exploding into laughter and gut-wrenching screams,  pale blue eyes rolling back in his head, maniacally.

Remember When staples such as “Suspended,” “In My Bed,” and “Halloween All Year” were all covered in satisfyingly fast, ferocious style. New songs were also previewed, including the super jaunty, bass-heavy jam that followed “Mallrats.” I lamented the omission of Remember When album opener “Lays At Rest” from the set list, but hey, you can’t sweat the small stuff. On the other hand, the one major, gaping issue with The Orwells’ show was its ridiculously short length. Clocking in at roughly a half hour, I couldn’t help but wonder why the band left in such a hurry. I paid good money for this shit, you guys! (Okay, so I paid ten dollars. But writers don’t make a lot of money.)

Undoubtedly the night’s highlight– and the real reason why the set’s length felt like such an injustice– was The Orwells’ one-song encore. The second I recognized the opening riff of “I Wanna Be Your Dog,” I pretty much lost it. Mario Cuomo threw his empty water bottle at the crowd and, in his best Iggy impression, delivered the show’s riotous, rousing finale. Unfortunately, it felt like just when things really started to get going, they were brought to a screeching halt.

Regardless, if The Orwells’ show taught me anything, it’s that they’re no accident. Remember When is a fucking great album, but really, it’s only the start of something much, much bigger. I’ll be seeing them again, and that’s pretty much all you need to know.

(flash, ugh.)

The only unanswered question that remains is, shouldn’t these guys be in school?!?

No full post here– just needed to take a moment from your day to let you know how insanely awesome the new Iceage record is. You’re Nothing was released just a few days ago, and already it’s topping seriously solid debut albums from Foxygen, Criminal Hygiene, and more for best release of 2013 thus far. Young, loud, fast, and as if that weren’t enough, Danish, Iceage are one quartet who really know how to craft a powerful, near-perfect punk record.

Please check out my Audiocred You’re Nothing Review for full details on this devilishly awesome LP. Plus, stay tuned for a far lengthier post on the totally epic, totally unexpected garage rock revival- revival (one ‘revival’ just doesn’t seem like enough) of 2013.

The Strokes are a band that require no introduction; as bona fide indie rock legends and a New York institution unto themselves, the Strokes are credited with (almost) single-handedly reviving the garage-rock genre and making leather jackets cool again (okay, so leather jackets have never NOT been cool.)

2011′s Angles was a major disappointment– over-ambitious, over-produced, over-everything– and, up until very recently, that was the last we’d heard of Casablancas and Co. You can imagine my excitement earlier this year, when the possibility of a new single was announced. All around the blogosphere, expectations were high, but it took practically no time at all for “One Way Trigger” to make an impact. Within what felt like seconds, the new Strokes’ jam was either the coolest late Christmas gift ever or the world’s biggest mega-flop.

As for me, I feel like “One Way Trigger” falls somewhere in between. Does it sound eerily similar to 1985′s saccharine sweet one-hit-wonder “Take On Me?” Um, that would be a yes. However, I’m not quite ready to give up on the Strokes just yet. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see if the band’s new album– which drops miraculously near my birthday– is worth our time.

Until then, all we can do is keep our fingers crossed, pray to the garage-rock gods above, and listen to Is This It? for the millionth time.