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Think aloofness can be attractive? I say yes, because Frankie Rose‘s Interstellar (Slumberland) is the musical equivalent of two girls perched at the end of the bar in silence, waiting for you to buy each of them a gin and tonic so they can go back to ignoring everything but their iPhones. And I’m sorry, but that’s pretty cool. Rose colors her slick, witchy indie pop with warm neon from an early-90s LA dance club and more than a few dashes of pixie dust, and the way she wraps her airy, fluttering voice around the music’s pulse will put a sway in the most stubborn of hips. —Kevin Warwick Blue stage
Daughn Gibson is on the Friday itinerary of Reader music critic Peter Margasak.
5:15 Angel Olsen
On their most recent album, last year’s Bend Beyond (Woodsist), post-psychedelic combo Woods don’t do much to disguise their influences—the Grateful Dead, Krautrock, Neil Young—but even after repeated listens, their vibe is so appealing and their melodies so insinuating that I don’t care to criticize the borrowing. They have a way with breezy jams that seem to belong more to the west coast than to their home in New York, with strum-along grooves, sweet harmonica, and muted fuzz guitar. Front man Jeremy Earl sings the band’s cozy, lived-in melodies in a modest, candied falsetto that seems to be a love-it-or-hate-it proposition for some folks (my wife definitely hates it), but I’m not one of them; I find it acceptable but don’t adore it. Woods occasionally get sidetracked by Summer of Love jamming, but on each record they’ve sounded more and more focused—with any luck their live gigs will follow suit. —Peter Margasak Red stage
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