Knick Knack Paddy

There were many such crescendos, and, widely spaced or not, these mothers filled the hall with some mighty strange and entertaining sights and deafening sounds: On the screen there's Recchion, who appears to be placing a slab of Styrofoam with a needle attached to it onto a spinning 78 rpm record (but at what speed?), while in this corner, G.E. Stinson unleashes a violent, droning blast from the Stratocaster with an e-bow (or a cassette player?) reverbing into the strings. All good. All told, it was the best group free-improv concert in living memory. (Tony Mostrom)

IDLEWILD at El Rey, April 3

A band can carve a career in the music business as mediocre purveyors of a revolutionary style, or through spectacular execution of more generic fare. Scot rockers Idlewild, for now, personify the latter: At their best ("You Held the World in Your Arms," "I Am What I Am Not") they're a steroidal Smiths as, like Morrissey, vocalist Roddy Woomble embarks upon tumbling trails of miserably empathetic melody, underscored by Rod Jones' strangled guitar foils. Elsewhere Idlewild recall a more loose-limbed Interpol, flash flecks of the Catherine Wheel's arrangement elegance and even meander into introverted emo territory.

Before a comfortably full El Rey rich in track tops and sneakers, Idlewild — established stars back in Europe — simulate the orchestration of their sometimes solemn third disc, last year's The Remote Part, with the addition of second guitarist Allan Stewart. At first, Woomble — a less pretentious Ian Brown/Damon Albarn amalgam — is buried in the instrumentation, irrelevant until infused with Jones' sweet 'n' sour harmonies. With the mix fixed, Idlewild are predictably punkier than their recordings suggest: more reckless in tempo and detail, visually fueled by Jones' son-of-Townshend leaps and new bassist Gavin Fox's head-tossing appreciation. When washed in acoustic guitar ("Live in a Hiding Place"), traditional folk flavors and Woomble's Celtic lilt bleed through.

With quality compositions in seemingly unlimited supply, and buoyed with the self-assurance of adulation back home, Idlewild offer few gimmicks or intros, Woomble limiting himself to occasional, heavily accented thank yous. When the main set ends amid discordant sustain, many of tonight's politely appreciative crowd head for the exits before the encores finally get the front rows bobbing. Idlewild are not an artistic revelation; they're a damn good rock & roll band, robust in all departments — songwriting, structure and performance. In gourmet bites, they'll tastily tide us over between the real meals. (Paul Rogers)