The "Sold Out" notice on the box-office window warned me that it was going to be another packed night at Neumos. Funny, I thought, until recently, crowds never used to be an issue, but now as middle age takes hold and my sources of entertainment lean more toward Netflix and Wii, I now understand why many friends of a similar age group pass on the big club shows, Bumbershoot, Kell's on St. Patrick's Day, etc. As we get older, we just need more space. 

Amazed after finding a sweet parking spot on Cap Hill at 9:30 Friday night, we made our way to the worst possible area of Neumos for claustrophobes - Moe Bar. Why? We had to snag our tickets for Mudhoney's free show on Monday, of course. Which will, undoubtedly, be another sardine-like experience. But, at least there I'll probably run into some friends at that one! We knew no one here, and didn't expect to. Different age group, different scene...we just knew it was gonna be us and the music at this show, and that's OK, as long as we could get some decent sight lines. After nearly getting mowed down by a "runner" transporting several cases of PBR from Moe Bar to the upstairs lounge, we found a gap at the bar, ordered our New Belgium liquid ticket to Mudhoney, drank up and got out. We decided to check out the upstairs, and it was perfect...empty tables, bar with no line, and a perfect view to the stage. 

Wildbirds & Peacedrums were playing, and although they are as popular - if not more so  - as St. Vincent, I didn't get it. The Swedish husband and wife duo, her singing, him playing a steel drum or a regular kit, bring a mopey, sparse, sophisticated (I suppose), approach to the stage but it was too low-key and did not pull us in. Which leads me to my most profound statement of the day: Minimalism is fine in small doses.

A fellow Easy Streeter tipped me off to St. Vincent (aka Annie Clark) some time ago, and I became a fan after listening to her most recent, Actor, and its predecessor, Marry Me. I was intrigued by the precision of her arrangements, the formidable skills of the band, and her ability to tear down the beauty of her songs in a blink of an eye with torrential noise squalls from her trusty axe. She's easy on the eyes as well, although her stage mannerisms at times resembled that of a very attractive, rail-thin robot, herking and jerking about as she punched various effects and beat the crap out of her guitar. When she settles into a song though, it's all about discipline - her Berklee School of Music training is very evident - although her rich, soothing voice adds considerable warmth to an often clinical musical approach. 

In addition to the usual suspects, her band included flute, sax, and violin, which wove a dreamlike soundscape around the structure, as they built layers around Annie, pulling back when necessary, and flipping the switch when she brought on the storm. She is an extraordinary guitarist, sometimes playing the fretboard like a typewriter, at other times fingerpicking sweet melodies, and occasionally letting her effects do all the work. Her first encore was a solo version of  The Beatles' "Dig a Pony" - unexpected, unconventional, but hey, that's how Annie rolIs.