Dolour @ Maggie Mae’s
(Wednesday, 12 a.m.)

Dolour is exactly the type of band I made the trip down to Austin for. Already widely hailed on their Seattle home turf, the band has yet to make many touring forays outside of the Northwest, so this was my first chance getting to see their ’70s-laced piano rock stylings in the flesh. Led by singer/songwriter/keyboardist Shane Tutmarc, Dolour have been releasing increasingly lavish pop platters since the dawn of the century, with their third, New Old Friends, released last fall. For this lightly attended gig, however, they performed as a piano/guitar/drums trio, a paired down sound that had a hard time relaying the same sort of dramatic flourishes and sonic grandeur of their Beaulah-ish LPs. Tutmarc still performed with valiant enthusiasm, however, forcing me to keep fingers crossed that a larger ensemble version of Dolour will makes it way to the Twin Cities soon.

American Music Club @ The Vibe
(Wednesday, 1 a.m.)

Regrouped two years ago after a decade-long retirement, San Francisco’s American Music Club remain a stellar, if highly combustible, live act. Watching the group’s heart-on-sleeve folk-rock alongside Superchunk main man Mac McCaughan (whose record label American Music Club currently resides on) was the kind of perfect fan-boy experience that inevitably found me gushing, “I love your band and wish you were playing the fest this year!” to McCaughan, who was nice—if not somewhat creeped out by my stalkerish enthusiasm. The band turned in a great set, with ever mercurial front man Mark Eitzel even more emotive and aggressive than usual—plenty of self-deprecating remarks and the occasional unexplained flipping off of the rabidly devoted crowd. The highwire act got cut short after about 30 minutes, however, with Eitzel deciding he wasn’t enjoying himself and exiting the stage with a curt, “I suck tonight, come and see us tomorrow, I promise it will be better.” Too bad their afternoon show was a private invite-only affair.

The Devil in the Woods Magazine/Tag Team Media Showcase @ Emo’s
(Thursday Afternoon - The Wrens, Stars)

Managing to shrug off little sleep and massive dehydration, I made it to the DIW/Tag Team showcase just in time to catch the final few songs of Pitchfork media darlings the Wrens set—and then promptly kick myself the rest of the day for missing out on the earlier portion of it. Performing with enviable energy given the time (early) and temperature (borderline scorching), the seasoned vets in the Wrens left little doubt that traditionalist college rock in the Pavement school of thought has plenty of gas left in the tank—at least if you throw as much energy into it as these gentleman do. Next came Montreal’s Stars, a great band whose blend of danceable rhythms, thoughtful lyrics and front man mugging (at some point the band must have decided vocalist Torquil Campbell was simply too much fun to watch bounding about the stage to make him prisoner behind a guitar). That being said I had caught their set just three days earlier at the 400 Bar and wasn’t quite ready for a double-dip, so I made my way over to a different showcase halfway through their performance.

WOXY Party @ The Blind Pig Pub
(Thursday Afternoon - Feist, Earlimart, The National)

After enduring the last few songs of aptly named Los Angeles dirge duo Giant Drag (who bitched about the heat in addition to sucking—apparently no one informed them that Texas is pretty far south), a mid-afternoon lull was hitting me pretty hard. Fortunately I was dragged out of my doldrums by Canadian songstress Feist, best known currently in the U.S. as a sometime contributor to Canuck supergroup Broken Social Scene and for some spotlight grabbing guest vocal turns on the Kings of Convenience’s most recent album. That should all change soon, however, as Feist’s debut solo album, Let It Die, has been picked up for American release by Interscope (it’s already available in Canada). A coquette-ish light pop concoction certain to warm the fashion-forward hearts of Stereolab fans, Let It Die is a sumptuous treat. Unfortunately, Feist’s attempts to recreate the lap of luxury sound with just her electric guitar and a sampling pedal felt a little stiff. The whole looping yourself sound thing may have been cool the first time I saw it (which was by Joseph Arthur roughly six years ago, although I’m sure he wasn’t the first) but it’s certainly become stale by now. Her voice was stellar as ever, however, and she managed to win plenty of new converts in the crowd. Next up was Earlimart, whose variations the Grandaddy-meets-Elliott-Smith-sound made for pleasant, if not particularly captivating listening.

Then came the main event for which I had been anxiously awaiting—a performance by Brooklyn-via-Ohio band the National. Already semi-stars in Europe, the National’s hard charging/tough minded rock successfully blends U2-sized hooks with the rich baritone voice of front man Matt Berninger to great effect, crafting a Leonard-Cohen-meets-Echo-&-the-Bunnymen-in-the-dead-of-night-and-writes-songs-about-broken-women-and-bad-drinking-habits vibe that simply reeks of eventual mega-stardom. The band, previewing material from their forthcoming third album Alligator, didn’t disappoint—with Berninger gripping the mic stand as if his life depended on it while his voice fluctuated between detached speaking register and shrieking banshee mode at will. True dynamos, the National laid down the single best performance among the 20+ shows I witnessed.

Merge Records Showcase @ The Parish
(Thursday night - Lou Barlow, The Radar Brothers, M. Ward, Crooked Fingers, Spoon)

A packed house gathered for a show featuring the best and brightest (well, discounting Superchunk, Lambchop and a few others) that the Merge Records label had to offer. The gig promised a “surprise special guest” that turned out to be Austin’s native sons and all around rock bad asses Spoon (who had been busy taping an appearance on the vaunted PBS program “Austin City Limits” earlier that day). Things started off with a low-key acoustic set from Lou Barlow, featuring some of the best cuts from his latest album, Emoh, and a few choice nuggets from his extensive back catalog. A couple of chatty ladies up by the side of the stage surreptitiously smoked cigarettes at the nonsmoking venue and incessantly chatted—somewhat marring the experience. Fortunately they were chastised by an ebullient—and totally wasted—Barlow diehard with repeated shouts of, “Don’t you know who Lou Barlow is? He’s a fucking god … SHUT THE FUCK UP!” between most songs. For the most part, the girls continued unfazed.

After a lackadaisical turn by the Radar Brothers, the already full venue got another boost of late arrivals, as all eyes eagerly awaited newly minted indie-folk prince M. Ward. His popularity has apparently quadrupled in the wake of some sold out tours alongside Bright Eyes as he was clearly one of the marquee names on most people’s lips. Disappointingly, Ward and his backing band turned in a short and somewhat sleepy set. Playing with his own band for the first time, Ward appeared to waste the opportunity, having a second guitarist on board just so that he could hold his guitar while he sang instead of play it. The rhythm section was similarly run-of-the-mill. Fortunately Ward’s blues man rasp was in fine fettle and he still knows his way around writing a tune—I’m hoping he eventually handles the role of bandleader with similar panache.

Last up were Spoon, a taut quartet whose minimalistic spy soundtrack tunes have morphed over the last decade from bristling Pixies knock-offs to something far sexier and more interesting. The bulk of their set was material from the forthcoming Gimme Fiction, which I didn’t end up getting an advance copy of until after returning to Minnesota, and which made it harder for me to get fully into the new grooves. Much of the new material, in particular “Sister Jack,” sparkled despite my unfamiliarity. The moments when the band played standout earlier material (“I Could See the Dude,” “Everything Hits At Once”) had the crowd, and myself, rightfully frenzied. Britt Daniel’s stiff upper lip and surefire strut have led some (OK, maybe just me) to dub him “The Mick Jagger of Indie-Rock.” He proved more than worthy of the title that night.