[Color photos by Andrew Parks; Black & white shots by Aaron Richter]

Melodramatic much? That’s one way of putting M83’s rather epic set at Webster Hall on Friday night. Setting things off with a carpe diem rendition of “Run Into Flowers,” Anthony Gonzalez led his airtight backing band through nearly two hours of sci-fi noir scores and widescreen pop that covered most of Saturdays=Youth and just about every back catalogue cut that matters. As sufficiently over-the-top as the whole thing sounded, the band’s impeccable mix could have been cranked up a bit. As self-titled’s associate editor, Aaron Richter, said, “Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s acoustic show at Webster Hall was louder than this.”  Because of this, the edge was taken off such gorgeous and grand cuts as “Teen Angst,” “Moonchild,” and “Kim & Jessie,” keeping M83 from reaching truly transcedent heights.

In other words, we left feeling uplifted instead of what we were really looking for: an experience that bowls us over and sweeps us straight off the ground.

As for M83’s openers, we dig School of Seven Bells‘ Ghostly debut so much that we got to Webster at the crack of 8 to catch their entire set. “Half Asleep” quickly reminded us why it’s one of our favorite singles of the year, but the trio’s set suffered from headphone listen syndrome. Sorry guys, but Webster Hall is and always will be too cavernous to capture an album as intricate and rich as Alpinisms. That said, SVIIB is a must-see as soon as they start headlining mid-sized clubs. Lots of photos after the jump …

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HEALTH pleads its case for its band name to appear in all caps.

By Aaron Richter

My favorite thing about HEALTH is that they’re not ugly. My second favorite thing about HEALTH is that nothing really seems to fit as you might expect it. First you’ve got a burly metalhead drummer brutalizing the demonic rhythmic core for three skinny boys, who flail about with jerky fey poses and unleash industrial guitar that grinds like it might as well be a painfully squealing execution scene itself in the next Saw film. Then dude starts singing (an element executed much better, and with more forceful emotion, live than on the group’s muddled self-titled debut) and it’s as if he’s completely blocked out his bandmates and decided to dump a bucket of steaming angst over everything, nearly bawling his eyes out like a possessed emo frontman who just chomped a few doom pills and is convinced he’s the antichrist (or at least one of his servants). Oh, and there are rimshots.

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Jay Reatard drops his Flying V, recreates the cover of ‘Superfuzz Bigmuff’

Photos by Andrew Parks

All right, we gotta be honest here: Brooklyn, you nearly brought self-titled to tears on Saturday. While the weather outside looked like monsoon season as Glasslands opened its doors, you guys packed the place within a few hours. As a thank you, we encourage anyone who had a hell of a time with us to e-mail events@self-titledmag.com about who you’d like to see at s/t’s next party, as we plan on booking more cheap, intimate, no-bullshit shows in the coming months. More details to come soon. For now, the evidence …

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Peek-a-boo, we see Yelle

Photos by Andrew Parks

While this post marks the end of our photo set overview of the Airwaves festival, we still have a number of stories to share, including last week’s Top 5 performances and a thorough Icelandic music package that’ll run in the third digital issue of self-titled later this year. For now, here are some of the last sets we’ll remember from one of the most rewarding fests self-titled’s ever witnessed.

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Ólafur Arnalds goes looking for the leprechaun at the end of Iceland’s famous ‘Golden Waterfall’

Text/Photos by Andrew Parks

If you’re from a major city and have never been to Reyjkavík before, finding yourself lost at 1 a.m. on a weeknight is both disorienting and a bit scary. Namely because the place is so quiet, with just one 24-hour store shilling 7-Eleven-esque fare and a ridiculous amount of lubricant. (Seriously; the 10-11 spot—way to be original with the name, guys—in the middle of the downtown area has a healthy assortment right by the register instead of, say, candy or packs of gum.)

As we found out on Friday, the reason for the unsettling silence is Iceland’s work-hard-and-party-harder policies, which reminds self-titled of the slories we’ve heard about Tokyo, a place that also appears reserved at the office and home … until Friday hits. While all Icelandic bars and clubs must be closed by 1 a.m. during the week, they’re open until 6 on the weekend. Which basically means a balls-to-the-wall vibe of broken glass, everywhere, people pissing in the streets like they just don’t care. And mating. There’s lots of mating.

To give you an idea of the contrast between Icelandic natives at night and the peaceful facade they project during the day, our summary of Friday shots is heavy on the crowd photos, with a nice counterpoint of Ólafur Arnalds taking us out into the locales you’d hit while on the country’s popular “Golden Circle” tour.

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Photos by Andrew Parks

It’s all coming back to us …

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A local Reyjkavík store sticks it to the country’s prime/finance ministers

Photos by Andrew Parks

So we’re finally out of the frozen tundra/Lord of the Rings fantasia that is Iceland and ready to share a stack of coverage from Airwaves ‘08. Since almost every interview we scheduled turned from a one-hour affair to (A) an afternoon exploring the outskirts of Reykjavík or (B) an entire midnight-to-6 evening crawling the bars and clubs of the city’s Brennivín-fueled beating heart, we’re saving our extensive Iceland package for the third issue of self-titled, out sometime this winter. For now, expect a string of photo sets, band profiles and reviews over the next couple days, beginning with a daily rundown of candid and live photos from the fest—everything from CSS to Crystal Castles to the astounding amount of local acts that blew us away better than South by Southwest has in years. What can we say; we wish you could have been there, but since you weren’t, here’s the next best thing …

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Photos/Text by Andrew Parks

As you might imagine by its tagline—”Music, Comedy, Action!”, featuring “6 Bands and 6 Comedians … Hyping the Hope”—Tuesday’s Barack Rock benefit was a mixed bag of stray surprises and endless set changes. The main problem was organization. Rather than take advantage of the comedians who were billed in between bands, the night’s promoters kept letting chunks of dead air settle in, leaving people with “come on already!” faces throughout the “Stage for Change” show. While we understand a group’s need for a soundcheck—especially Franz Ferdinand, since they haven’t played the U.S. or a venue this small in forever—everyone was playing four or five songs a piece, making the segues longer than the sets themselves.

Minor complaints aside, it was encouraging to see Hopeful people move between the concert itself and the “Obama Room” downstairs, balancing the need to see Guster (woah with the college rock flashback, guys!) and an unplugged-but-fierce Les Savy Fav with the debate itself, which was shown on one large screen and a handful of spotty, dorm room-sized TVs.

About Les Savy Fav by the way—it’s unfortunate that they were given a time slot right in the middle of the candidates’ sparring session. Unlike most of the other bands on the bill, they treated the show as an opportunity to do something different—something short but sweet, if you will—a series of singalong covers (Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” the Zombies’ “This Will Be Our Year,” David Bowies’ “Heroes”), complete with 40 lyric sheets passed out to fans and printed out by frontman Tim Harrington. We’ll reserve our judgement on Franz Ferdinand’s semi-triumphant return (the crowd simply wasn’t into last night’s performance despite the group’s convincing efforts) to this evening’s “secret set” at the same venue. Expect photos, a review and a set list from that later on. Photos for now …

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[Photos by Shawn Brackbill]

Pissed Jeans never cease to amaze us. Not the act of soiling one’s self like that guy on Mad Men this week; we’re talking about the only Philly band that truly reflects that city’s layer cake of grime and pure filth. To hear what we mean, cop the following MP3s and follow the “read more” road to more shots of Matt Korvette twisting and shouting like a slightly bloated cobra snake.

“I’ve Still Got You (Ice Cream)”

“People Person”

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Photos by Andrew Parks

As we said on our Twitter account earlier, Wednesday’s Weezer show was basically the opposite of My Bloody Valentine’s endurance test the day before: loose and laidback, beginning with a raucous rendition of “My Name Is Jonas,” as howled by bassist Scott Shriner. (Frontman Rivers Cuomo spent the entire song prowling the stage and flexing his finest rock star poses.)

Watching Cuomo share the spotlight with his bandmates—every member had their turn(s) as lead vocalist, including a cheeky bastard cover of Oasis’ “What’s the Story, Morning Glory?” by drummer Patrick Wilson—was certainly surprising at first. After all, the last time we saw Weezer (about six years ago in a mid-sized Rochester arena), Cuomo was still in his eccentric/egocentric phase, keeping all eyes on him while looking stilted and akward for at least half of the set. Not this time around; judging by the band’s costume changes alone, from Royal Tenenbaum-esque track suits to Cuomo’s inexplicable soccer uniform at the show’s close, Weezer was clearly determined to show their lighter side. (Check out the difference between cover stories in 2002 and 2006 to see how Cuomo’s morphed from an imposing Grizzly Adams phase to being a complete goofball.)

Song wise, tonight was full of fan favorites, balancing proven new jams (”Pork & Beans,” a rather operatic “The Greatest Man That Ever Lived”) with such welcome deep cuts as “Pink Triangle” and “El Scorcho.” Photos and a complete set list after the jump …

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