Listers A through D have been spotted all over Austin this week (Carson Daly was randomly announcing bands at Red 7 my first night here, and I could swear I saw Malin Akerman walking around earlier that afternoon), but that would prove mere prologue to the madness of Friday. Jack White's showcase reportedly turned up Bill Murray and John C. Reilly and drew the longest, most disappointed line of the festival as almost no one got in, and while I only made it to five performances, they were all from well-established acts who had their own celebrity connections both direct and incidental.

My first time at the historic Moody Theater (where Austin City Limits is filmed) was a wonderfully relaxing, and much-needed break from the dingy bars and sardine-can clubs I'd been touring the past two days. Spaciously tiered like a sports arena, with impeccable sound and a friendly staff, this building is a testament to just how seriously Austin takes its music scene. I felt I'd given The War On Drugs a fair shake already and wasn't terribly impressed, but I decided to go in with an open mind and see if I could discern what all the fuss is about. After frontman Adam Granduciel lamely namedropped festival keynote speaker Bruce Springsteen, the band launched into an unmemorable, but mostly listenable set of murky, atmospheric rock that straddled the line between the least interesting aspects of grunge and shoegaze. Ambient keyboard drones and noisy, feedback-heavy guitar congealed around dull, no-frills drumming, and the lead singer's voice just melted into the stew like a whiny, bullion cube. To quote the Reverend Pat Robertson, "The War On Drugs has failed."

I'd have gladly sat through three sets by The War On Drugs, however, if it meant seeing The Magnetic Fields in such a substantial and worthy setting. Project mastermind/lovable curmudgeon Stephin Merritt led his band out to wild applause and took up his customary position at the far left end of the stage (he's going deaf in his left ear, and so keeps all his accompanists to his right to better hear them). He immediately made a somewhat snider remark about Bruce Springsteen (perhaps mocking Granduciel's shamelessness), and then treated the ACL Live crowd to a lovely, intimate concert that spanned the band's entire catalogue. Hearing Merritt's voice live was remarkable. I always knew it was pretty far down the register - at times he almost recalls Johnny Cash - but in the resonant, acoustically immaculate space of the Moody, he reached Jacques Cousteau depths. His voice is deeper than Chicago dish pizza; deeper than Ray Lynch's breakfast; deeper than a chat between Nietzsche and Camus. Pianist Claudia Gonson sang about a third of the tunes, providing a nice, unaffected alto counter-balance to Merritt's low tones, and though they both had to take moments to deal with an unusually shitty crowd (one heckler yelled out "your band sucks" before the first song even began, another repeatedly demanded to hear "The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side," and people talked loudly through even the quietest tunes), she handled it with the disarming wit and take-charge attitude of a Joss Whedon heroine, effectively tempering Merritt's obvious irritation. Between them, three bandmates bowed cellos and plucked guitars, filling out Merritt's intricate, minimalist chamber arrangements of classics like "The Book of Love" from *69 Love Songs* and brand new pieces like the infectious "Andrew in Drag." It was pure, indie-pop magic from one of the genre's true masters.

I was treated to a surreal sight on my way back across town that made me stop for a moment in spite of myself. A giant outdoor stage erected near our hotel was playing host to GZA of Wu-Tang Clan fame (sadly, RZA was not on hand - likely busy playing a thinly veiled version of himself on the current season of *Californication* ). The surreal part was not the GZA himself, who seemed dazed bordering on catatonic as he delivered choppy rhymes with virtually no stage presence, but rather that the stage was built in the shape of a giant vending machine (complete with numbered buttons, and a tree-trunk-sized cord plugged into an outlet as big as a phone booth) full of bags of new "Jacked" Doritos so enormous you could use them like bean bag chairs. Compared to all the fiery young MC's that have rocked the mic in Austin this week, GZA simply felt a step behind, but that stage was just distracting enough that you could still kind of nod your head and enjoy the ride. It was sad and awesome in equal measure, but on an epic scale.

After the opulent majesty of the Moody Theater, the overcrowded, and dismally balmy ND club was a rude awakening. Thankfully, current it-band Cults made the trek across town feel more than worth it. With the best video/light show I've seen in Austin thus far (giant projections of TV static, synchronized swimmers, Trek-style starscapes, rolling cityscapes, shifty-eyed clock cats, and faces traced in topographical map lines washed over the band throughout their set. Simple but incredibly effective.) and the charming, almost fairly-like presence of frontwoman Madeline Follin, these guys made me wanna dance despite the sweaty, oppressive conditions. Tying a jangly mixture of 50's rock and 60's French girlpop up in a pretty, polka-dotted indie rock bow, this band is nearly impossible not to love (and their drummer bears a striking resemblance to Neil Patrick Harris!). If American kids still hung out in malt shops, Cults would be on every jukebox.

A mercifully early night ended on one of the week's high notes as I muscled my way into the Beauty Bar to see Blackalicious, fronted by my all-time favorite MC, Gift of Gab. Already a heavyset man, Gift was also inexplicably bundled up in long pants, multiple shirts and a heavy, fleece-lined coat and still didn't seem to even break a sweat in the humid, furnace-like space (his co-MC wore a t-shirt covered almost entirely by an image of the face of Walter White from *Breaking Bad* ). Blowing through tongue-twisting classics like "Alphabet Aerobics," "Blazing Arrow," and "Calisthenics" with freakish speed and verbal dexterity, Gift was everything I expected and more. He dropped some disgusting new material acapella toward the end, and promised both new solo and Blackalicious albums in the near future. If only they would arrive with the speed of their creator's wicked delivery.