The slot originally held for R&B voodoo master D'Angelo (who had to cancel due to a medical emergency) was filled by freakery of another kind thanks to Chic and re-energized disco don Nile Rodgers. Still riding on the high of Daft Punk's "Get Lucky," co-writer Rodgers and Co. closed their set by simply dancing along to a recording of the robot rockers' smash hit — just in case anyone in the crowd was still doubting his relevance. The bulk of their set, however, was plated in classic disco gold with some of the slickest, sassiest, boogiest hits ever — from "Everybody Dance" to "Dance, Dance, Dance (Yowsah, Yowsah, Yowsah)" to Bowie's "Let's Dance" — all proving Chic's timelessness and universality: It's not every day you'll see a hippie bro with butt-length hair shaking said butt to "I'm Coming Out." STEPHANIE BENSON

The beginning of NIN's set — their fourth show since getting back in the swing of things — must have thrilled fans of the group's icy latter-day material and filled their old-school fans with dread. An increasingly swole Trent Reznor took the stage alone for the new "Copy of A," hissing out the lyrics while the busy beat built and his bandmates joined one by one. The austere setup found each man at his own electronics station, long shadows simply silhouetted against a plain white backdrop, all signs pointing toward "cold" and "heady." But after a bit that involved Josh Eustis playing some kind of table-mounted Chinese violin, the LED panels behind each man rolled aside to reveal a full drum kit ready to be rocked, and things got smolderingly, viscerally hot at an alarming rate. While the opening songs seemed to start with burbling digitalia and build to a noisy, danceable peak, older songs like "March of the Pigs" were a firestorm from the get. The minimal backdrop transformed into a warzone of ambient red light and rapid-fire blasts of yellow from all sides."Terrible Lie" too was a furious seether replete with clanging sequences and punishing drum-work, while the moveable screens somehow turned the band's shadows into whorling masses of static. It's impossible to overlook the carefully choreographed lightshow and much credit is due to the stagehands who also kept the musical gear cycling through. Despite how much effort undoubtedly went in to making Reznor's 20-foot-wide face emerge from a roiling ball of Matrix-made hellfire during "Closer," Nine Inch Nails never seemed the least bit hindered. They were perfectly at ease dishing out gobs of unease from their 25-year-old Empire of Dirt (yes, they played "Hurt" too) for the entire 90 minutes. CHRIS MARTINS

Those not in touch with their dark side, skipped dancing to Trent Reznor's gloom-pulse to instead gleefully bop along to the affable Phoenix. This side of the festival was arguably the much, much brighter — and younger — one. Every color of the rainbow flashed from the stage as light mist cleansed the bubbly crowd — who mostly seemed to think Phoenix only have two albums under their belts. (It's five.) Still, the boys played with that carefully cool composure only sophisticated Frenchmen could get away with. "Entertainment" was the lead single off this year's Bankrupt!, which means they had better damn well bring just that, and with snappy guitar and synths that fizzed and popped as impressively as Sir Paul's fireworks show the previous night, the kids ate it up with as much sugar-high glee as those chowing down on the big-ass peanut butter cups selling for a whopping $8 at the fest's formidable Choco Lands. If it was up to the under-30 crowd, you better believe Phoenix upstaged scary old Trent. S.B.

Sir Paul turned a mere 71 years old a few months back and the man's still got some pretty wagalicious hair. And that's not the only impressive thing: The Beatle played nearly three hours to a jam-packed crowd, plowing through classic after classic. Sure, his set and his stories haven't changed much over the last decade or so, but it's still a delight to hear a mini-Hendrix tribute (via some "Foxy Lady" riffage) complete with a story on how Hendrix played "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" two days after its release back in 1967, and asked for Eric Clapton to tune his guitar. Jimi seemed to be on Paul's mind all night, his rock side eclipsing his poppier reputation. He even chose some of the Beatles' more eccentric tracks, like "All Together Now," "Lovely Rita," and an especially woozy "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!," to be heavily sprinkled throughout the set, perhaps as an homage to San Francisco's psychedelic proclivities. Fire blasts and fireworks on "Live and Let Die" threatened to nearly deafen the legend, but fear not, he can still get the young girls' tongues wagging: During his first encore, McCartney signed the wrists of two girls who held up signs saying: "Paul sign me! Be my first and only tattoo." S.B.

These savory little fried clouds of dough from San Fran's own Rich Table were dusted in porcini powder and served alongside a ricotta cheese dip.

California's own funk-punk O.G.s have 30 years under their socks and 50 singles to their name. If that's not the stuff of a festival headliner, than we wouldn't know one if it came to our house and executed a bitchin' slap-bass solo in our living room. Yes, RHCP is an easy target for writers these days, but mostly because of their staggering ubiquity. In turn, these moments are made for giving a polo field's worth of people the opportunity to scream things like, "Ding, dang, dong, dong, deng, deng, dong, dong, ding, dang," without an ounce of embarrassment. "Music is the voice of God," Flea philosophized at the set's end. Sure, something like that. C.M.

With his shoulder-length mane, facial foliage, and big, dark shades, Daryl Hall strutted onto the stage in Lebowski-like glory. But soon it was all soul-cheese wishes and 8-track dreams, as he and John Oates tore through No. 1 hit after No. 1 hit: "Out of Touch," "Maneater," "I Can't Go For That (No Can Do)" all included. Oates laid on the stinky-face guitar noodling as Hall played his part as the lovelorn Casanova — of "Sara Smile" he admitted, "Like 'She's Gone,' this is a song that's a little too real." Charles "Mr. Casual" DeChant may have been the unassuming star, though, supplying the duo with more than a few stately sax solos, the ultimate accessory for optimal soft-rock sexiness. And even though the Chili Peppers were the real headliners of the day, Hall and Oates still did an encore, because when you have classics like "Rich Girl" and "You Make My Dreams" still to play, you deserve it. S.B.

The cuddliest way to find your buddies after one too many. Floppy bears, dirty bears, cute bears, and care bears all had their day in the sun — er, fog.

The redheaded stranger turned 80 this year and he's no worse for wear. Like the whiskey he often sings about (he opened with 1973's "Whiskey River") Willie Nelson only seems to get better with age — his voice deeper, his words wiser — even if he's increasingly aware of his creeping mortality. That the man closed his triumphant set with "Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die" seemed a little morbid if not too on the nose, but that combination of libertarian spunk and unblinking truthfulness is what makes Nelson a living classic. Which must be the reason John "Uncle Jesse" Stamos felt compelled to slip onstage and play bongos in Willie's Family band for the second half of the gig (he did fine, now let's move on). "Still Is Still Moving to Me" was another latter-day highlight, though the Outside Lands audience was most thrilled to hear old soulful numbers like "Georgia on My Mind" and "Night Life," and outlaw tales like "Beer for My Horses" and "Me and Paul." Unofficial fest mayor Bob Weir also showed up to assist on a cover of Hank Williams' "Jambalaya (On the Bayou)," and Nelson tossed out a half-dozen hats and bandanas from his head to fans' hands before the things was over. The bells and whistles were fun, but we were there for the tunes, and to remind the world once again (by slurring loudly in unison) of the dangers mammas letting their babies grow up to be cowboys. C.M.

From afar the Vampire Weekend stage looked like a live J.Crew ad, the members fresh-faced, white-shoed, and holding their instruments like fashionable props. Up close, Ezra Koenig was the consummate people-pleaser: "People think of us as an East Coast band. But we do have multiple songs named after people in the Bay Area," he announced midway through his band's bubbly set. Of course, this thrilled the SF crowd as the band then broke into the woozy Modern Vampires of the City ballad "Hannah Hunt" and the Afro-popping "One (Blake's Got a New Face)" (apparently about a guy from Palo Alto). Essentially, they make it really damn hard not to like them, especially when they sound as crisp and polished as their prep-boy outfits. S.B.

Shiny purple and gold suit, papal hat, and clownish makeup aside, indie rock's most vivacious frontwoman came off somehow relatable. Sure, she played the untouchable rock star, head-banging, scarf-whipping, floor-gyrating, backwards-bending in sacrificial style, screaming lines like "I'll suck your blood." But there was almost always an innocent smile behind her Jagger-esque poise as if she still can't believe she's actually doing this rock star thing for a living. Not to be outdone, though, Nick Zinner had his guitar at 11, muting the drums a bit much, but the dub groove of "Under the Earth," throbbing beats of "Mosquito," and dance-floor bounce of "Heads Will Roll" helped bring back a sexy kind of rhythm — the only kind worthy of Ms. O. S.B.

British chanteuse Jessie Ware apologized profusely for hitting the stage about 15 minutes late, but the crowd quickly forgave and forgot, soon swaying and grinding to her sensous electro-soul. "I need your devotion," she pleaded on the set's opener, playing coy with a black, belly-baring top under a cream, robe-like cover; a wardrobe choice not unlike her music — dark and subtly sexy yet light and casually playful. She brought bedroom steam to the cool, overcast Golden Gate Park with atmospheric tracks that truly groove, like crowd faves "If You're Never Gonna Move," "Imagine It Was Us," and a not-yet-released track, whose newness seemed to trip her up on the drum machine: "It's going on the second album. I hate it!" she giggly interjected. And it was this sort of cheeky stage banter that made her just as charming (or maybe just as sassy), as she urged the crowd — and a security guard — to do a two-step dance, and then proudly introduced closing track "Wildest Moments" by sharing her excitement of its use in a condom commercial: "I wanted people to kiss to my music. Well, now they can have sex to it." S.B.

Mid-song, Jessie Ware scolded a fan who didn't pass a crowd-surfing ball her way: "You are a football scrooge! I wanted to kick the ball but you ruined the moment!"

"Disconnect to reconnect" was the slogan. Ironically, this was the best place to get a good signal.

A palpable change overcame the festival grounds as the sun sank deeper into the Pacific. People seemed somehow loopier and far more grindy with the teeth. Shortly after watching two patrons gleefully confirm that they'd freshly become "rolling buddies," we witnessed a young woman simply fall over from a standing position (she's fine, by the way). Following the sea of people headed to festival's far end for Pretty Lights, the neon and glowthings began to appear in force. A rave had materialized! Derek Vincent Smith lorded over his laptop tower, a benevolent baseball-capped king showering his molly-enriched citizenry with funky breaks, bounding glitch, soulful samples, and space age effects. Imagine DJ Shadow on steroids or Prefuse 73 as a bro and you'll be in the right ballpark. His nonstop mix was full of crate-digger delights and the day's first real excuse to dance one's ass off. C.M.

No word yet on if Tara Reid will co-star in the movie based on this event.

Go ahead, call the National "dad-rockers" — they probably wouldn't object. The always dapperly dressed lead man Matt Berninger is all about showing his fatherly support, mentioning his daughter more than a few times during the band's set, even giving a shout-out to her preschool teacher in the audience before playing the precious "I Need My Girl." But after playing tracks like "Afraid of Everyone" and the troubling drug addiction tale, "This is the Last Time," he had to let the teacher know, "This is not how it's like at home!" Meanwhile, his band seemed nothing but cool and collected alongside the great chamber ensemble Kronos Quartet, and with Grateful Dead guitarist Bob Weir, who joined them on closing track "Terrible Love." S.B.

Grizzly Bear had men carrying girls on shoulders out in droves. The band's presence was mostly mannered, their focus mainly on getting their cavernous choir-boy croons and swirly baroque pop to carry without getting muffled by the fog. It wasn't always successful (the dramatic builds of songs like "Ready, Able" and "While You Wait for the Others" lose a bit of their poignancy in big, open spaces) and so their newer material from Shields, the more dynamic, almost free-jazz-like arrangements, ruffled the crowd a bit more. Though nothing hit like "Two Weeks," which even had lines at the Porta Potties collectively swaying. S.B.

London's leading funky drum'n'bass big band was all about the posi vibes. "Open up your hearts, your minds, and your souls," hollered lead toaster DJ Locksmith with an earnestness that was returned from the crowd, arms aloft as if they were feeling a particularly nice breeze blowing through the field. Surprisingly, the group didn't have Emeli Sandé reprise her recorded role on "More Than Anything," but with nine folks on stage working to blow out every song via voice, horns, keys, beats, and bass (plus at least one member just spinning like a happy eagle at any given time), they didn't need much help. After delivering dubwise trip-hop gospel with "Hell Could Freeze," they played some disco licks while half of the crew did the hustle in sync. Still, just because the gang was in a good mood doesn't mean they didn't have teeth. Before launching into "Free" (again, no Sandé), Locksmith announced, "I want to see some shoulder-sitting people." The audience obliged but the authorities tried to shut it down. Rudimental DGAF: "Forget security! It's just us and you!" C.M.

Kurt Vile's luscious curly locks, draped over a youthful visage, belied an old soul. His dusty classic-rock tales betrayed a long, hard life; a resigned sorrow resonates in his sleepy croons, and hints of Neil Young surface often. Live, he's not much of a talker — instead of addressing the crowd with anything other than "thank you," his head remained buried in an acoustic guitar, then an electric one, then back to the acoustic, as his fingers jumped around barre chords and nimble notes. He pretty much went straight down the tracklist of this year's Wakin on a Pretty Daze, near-10-minute jams included. His Violators added rich, subtle textures in just as humble of fashion, one even sitting to the side of the stage (if you didn't look closer, you'd think he was just a roadie), switching expertly between a lap slide guitar and melodica. Longer cuts like "Wakin on a Pretty Day" and "Girl Called Alex," gradually intensified into a windstorm of effects, helping rouse the stony-faced early afternoon crowd. S.B.

If Rudimental were the positivity-slinging descendents of London's 2 Tone ska, their collaborator Emeli Sandé and her similarly sizable band were their dark and soulful shadow. The London songstress opened with "Heaven," a heavy song about waking with good intentions and screwing it all up by nightfall. Backed by six players, she was upbeat and charming in between songs, and even whipped up a sing-along for "My Kind of Love," a song that's about cutting through the candy and flowers of romance to reveal the raw stuff of real nuts-and-bolts dedication. Her R&B was moody to be sure, but the ace players behind her and that incredible voice spoke volumes for her viability as a Top 40 pop performer. "I am full of light / I am full of wonder," she sang on her Naughty Boy feature "Wonder." The lyrics seemed to be reassurance to herself — fair since the crowd was already convinced. C.M.

Most summer festivals are hot and dusty and nastily dry; and if they aren't, they're hot and dusty and prone to torrential downpour. Not so for Outside Lands. Sure, the overcast weather and ocean air was a bit much for some of the visiting festivallers (ahem, Angelenos) but for most the lack of swelter was a major plus. And the San Francisco mist? That was just plain magical, always seeming to arrive at just the right moment, whether in the midst of Chromatics' noirish set or during Paul McCartney's surprise fireworks display. For those less impressed, vendors sold a commemorative blanket that was well worth the 40 bones they were charging.

It's been 20 years since J5 first came together in the Los Angeles underground, and even then the crew was, "On some other shit...all about the beats and the lyrics." Rap music has mutated in a dozen different directions since, but the palpable classicism and athletic ability of "Concrete Schoolyard" still has its place — more than ever, in fact, if the Outside Lands crowd was any indication. The fully reunited crew (with both Cut Chemist and DJ Nu-Mark on deck) drew more than Nine Inch Nails by a considerable margin, packing out the park's polo field with predominantly pale palms bobbing in time with the sunshiney soul-kissed beats and barbershop raps (plus that kazoo solo). Unofficially led by baritone carnival barker Chali 2na, MCs Akil, Zaakir, and Mark 7even presented a united front — "full frontal assault" might be more accurate — hustling hard to remind everyone why a highly honed posse will beat the pants off of a solo dolo rhymer any day of the week. C.M.

It was a shame that one of Johnny Jewel's exquisite electro-noir outfits had to go up against Sir Paul, but seeing Chromatics before the sun went down would've doubtless been synthpop sacrilege. The Portland posse has been doing this Drive-score shit for more than a decade — long before their music made it into the actual Drive score — and their ownership over that winning combination of icy ennui, luxe robo-skronk, and motorik rhythm is a sight to behold. They held forth on their own undeniable highlights ("Lady," "Kill for Love") and applied equal aplomb to expertly chosen covers: Kate Bush's glistening New Age fantasy "Running Up That Hill" and Neil Young's proto-grunge downer dirge "Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black)." Though Adam Miller (in shades and leather, natch) leant his Vocodered pipes to the cause, it was Ruth Radelet who took down both versions with her chilling, crystalline intonations. It's no wonder the S.F. mist came a'calling during their set. C.M.

Bedecked in their best flannels, these Brooklyn punks pumped out fiery blues-addled psychedelic nastiness, the warped nature of which was highly amplified by the presence of a wicked pedal-steel player. The five-piece hit the ground running, barreling through wild rippers filled with perfectly imperfect backing harmonies and loads of slackerly yearning ("Please don't go away," sung a fella who sounds like he's sunken too far into the couch to ever give chase). But as the set progressed, those rapid combustions evolved into a slowly blooming sort of explosion — space-rock grinding over deep hard-won grooves. The Men weren't much for banter, but when they opened their mouths, they made it count. Shortly after bashing out "New Moon," they bid us adieu. As he reached down to unplug amidst the fading squeal, bassist-singer Ben Greenberg had some final words for his small but faithful crowd: "Thanks, have fun, say hi to the Red Hot Chili Peppers for me." C.M.

Worst drinking game — or best, depending on your style of festival-going — take a shot every time you hear the word "Sade" at a Rhye set. Mike Milosh's gooey vocal androgyny is a knee-weakening thing, especially when employed to gush things like, "Mmmmmmmmake love to me." His coo is elemental, yes — sometimes a warm breeze, often a swelling tide — but more remarkable is the man's subtle mastery over it, a feat that his band pays back in spades. Behind Milosh were keys, bass, drums, violin, trumpet, and some kind of minimal future-cello that worked in consort to unspool groove in a deliberate 50-minute spin. "We've got three days to sing this song," goes the hook to one of their quiet-storm masterpieces, and at times it felt like Rhye would take that entire span if Outside Lands had let them. But a 10-minute version of "Open" begged enough metaphors about the art of slow seduction. C.M.

Youth Lagoon's Trevor Powers has transformed from reserved bedroom-pop darling to mad scientist, fit with frizzy, wild, blond-streaked hair seemingly styled by Robert Smith. It seems Powers is playing the old rebellious sophomore nowadays, attempting to alienate fans by playing almost no tracks from his first, beloved release. Instead, he barely acknowledged the crowd, looming fanatically over his keyboards, every move frantic and deliberate, as if every key he hit would result in a catastrophe. He transformed sounds from psychedelic to churchly to celestial to dissonant in dizzying fashion. His longhaired support band let him indulge, perhaps hypnotized themselves by it all. It was a dark, weird, and woozy set — even the sun chose to hide until the last chords dissipated — but by far the most haunting of the day. S.B.

Deep in the woods was a magical place dubbed Choco Lands. Within this Wonkan dreamscape, attendees looking to slake their thirst for sweets could be satisfied many times over thanks to the presence of several booths ranging from self-explanatory delights like Kara's Cupcakes and Epic Cookies to a lab that churned out custom "liquid candy bars" (Dixie cups full of melted chocolate and hand-picked toppings). There was even a shop that sold peanut butter cups large enough to choke a horse (weight estimated between two and four pounds).

Two Union Jacks waved in reverence as Foals set out to overtake Muse's position as most bombastic British rock band of the new century. The Oxford band's Rapture-esque dance-rock has gotten progressively heavier since their 2008 debut, Antidotes, and aside from the always sublime "Spanish Sahara," they reveled in noisemaking bluster with double kick-drums, splintering guitar antics, and frontman Yannis Philippakis jumping on top of amps to atop the crowd. After eloquently wishing us all a "fucking awesome day," they ripped into single "Inhaler," a blistering mix of punk-funk and Deftones' anguished alt-metal, before ending on the jumpy-jittery "Two Steps, Twice," a track introduced by Philippakis as being "straight from the bowels of Britain." S.B.

San Franciscans got a strong dose of earnest strum and plucked heartstrings on Saturday afternoon and not a single "Hey! Ho!" was uttered. Credit folksy Swede Kristian Matsson, who held his crowd enrapt with just a guitar, a microphone, and an off-white folding chair. A humble romantic with a taste for Dylan and Drake, the Tallest Man alternately cooed and roared his way through simple janglers like "The Gardener" and darkly tinted serpentine numbers like "Leading Me Now." While most of his songs played the plucky silver lining to the gloomy clouds above, he picked up an electric axe for "Where Do My Bluebird Fly," whipped up some stormy feedback and sung of flitting ghosts amidst fog while actual mist coated the crowd in front of him. But he rose "out of the darkness" with closer "The Wild Hunt," which became a wistful cover of Paul Simon's "Graceland" before he took his bow. C.M.

Jeggings may be out but the trend has only bifurcated and expanded. On the one hand, we haven't seen so many different types of acid-wash since Jordache was a major denim player. More importantly, a preposterous amount of far-out tights has proliferated amongst Outside Lands crowd. The dominant variety by far was the celestial look. We even saw a couple of bros sporting the solar system flair.

Shredder-howler Lindsey Troy and the kit-crashing Julie Edwards were likely sober considering how tightly packed their afternoon set was with dirging blues and fiery rock, but their pro-party emanations attracted a particularly rowdy crowd. One young woman push-stumbled her way to the front during "Bad for My Body," took one look around, then slur-shouted, "Why isn't anyone dancing I don't get it!?" Troy then dedicated the next number to the ladies — "Walk of Shame," brilliantly — while that particular lady and her pals kicked off a mosh pit. C.M.

"Hometown! Hometown!" Thao Nguyen shouted by way of an introduction after she and her formidable band opened with her 2010 post-punk-alt-folk breakout "Body." The S.F.-based guitarist came equipped with a bari-sax blaster, a trumpeter, and all of the usual bells and whistles, but she could have kept the crowd enthralled all on her own. Surrounded by a half-circle of stringed things just waiting for her expert touch, she cycled through hollow-bodies, banjos, electric axes (sometimes mounted for a slide performance), and something that looked violin-ish, with each stroke, strum, or shred amplifying her impassioned vocals in turn. Of course, without the Get Down Stay Down, the ramshackle grooves and occasional hoedowns of We the Common wouldn't get a chance to truly shine. Nguyen picked up steam as she went, commanding the crowd to, "Find some hips and ask for permission," before playing "When We Swam," and shortly thereafter blessing the propulsive crescendo of "Move" with an interpolation of Ludacris' "What's Your Fantasy." C.M.

When you've got a Black Key on your album, people will come. And a few of the wiser ones showed up at 4:30 to see Tuareg guitarist Bombino's West-Coast-meets-West-Africa jam-out sesh. He's has been plowing through the festival circuit with a style that can appeal to fans of dusty Saharan blues and rhythmic jam-rock alike. Properly turbaned for the desert (or maybe just the Bay chill), Bombino's cohorts rhythmically swayed as his guitar oozed with the liquid licks of San Francisco's own Carlos Santana. S.B.

The hippest young fashionistas at the fest weren't the ones sporting five-panel Supreme hats or Navajo-print Pendleton coats. They were the #Seapunks and GIF kids that Major Lazer's "Bubble Butt" video pokes (ahem) a little friendly fun at — nü-rave denizens whose style owes equally to halcyon days of '60s acid-tripping as to the primitive Internet aesthetics of the nascent '90s. A mishmash of tie-dye, lip-liner, flower-power, yin-yangs, smileys, circular shades, shark-cessories, and liberally applied hairdye, the style emerged at varying degrees of intensity. Above, you'll find Angle Sunlight and Daniel, two of the sweetest hashtag hippies that ever there were.

With a messy mop of neon yellow/green/pink hair and clad in checkered pants and a furry peach coat, the MS of MS MR, Lizzy Plapinger, was Gwen Stefani reborn as art-rock seductress. But the comparisons stop there: Where Gwen would pogo, Lizzy undulated; where Gwen would coyly shriek, Lizzy passionately howled. Right from opener "Bones," MS MR's agenda was crystal clear. They played the dark drama card much like Florence + The Machine — all booming drums and grandiose builds (even a creepy organ effect on occasion), all augmented by Plapinger's resonant, soulful pipes. S.B.

Amongst California's coffee cognoscenti, it is well known that San Francisco is, as they say in the biz, killing it. Their roasters are held in the highest of esteem: Ritual, Sightglass, Four Barrel and, of course, Blue Bottle. The latter had its own booth at OSL, where you could opt for a delicious pre-mixed New Orleans iced coffee, a no-nonsense four-buck drip or, for the patient and picky, a five-dollar hand pour-over featuring some piquant Ethiopian beans whose juice paired perfectly with an array of luxe cookies served up inside of coffee filters. Oh and the next booth over did brioche breakfast sandwiches.

A neon-shaded bro in the crowd at the packed Panhandle Stage for London dream-poppers Daughter seemed slightly confused: "Everyone's down and not smiling," he sulked, maybe lost on his way to see Zedd. "Well, it's sad music!" his companion wisely retorted. This, indeed, is sad, sad music: Daughter frontwoman Elena Tonra is a sullen siren, building lovelorn tales with poetic beauty and preciseness (a line like "If you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones/ 'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs," should leave anyone breathless). Her cohorts in Daughter wrap these stories in stormy atmospherics as beautifully haunting as fellow Brits the xx, but with an even greater post-rock-level of grandiosity. But though Tonra's lyrics are dim, her pixie presence is humble and bright — she just couldn't stop smiling after the crowd cheered on gorgeous single "Youth." S.B.

Sure, Nine Inch Nails had an award-worthy display of choreographed lights, but these SoCal beach bums deserve some credit for their DIY décor. This acid-fried cowpunk wasteoid sextet was surrounded by eight-foot-tall slabs of plywood painted to resemble their very own custom lotería deck, the highlights of which included: "El Barto" (a gawky version of Bart Simpson telling the world to "Suck it!"); "El Zonkey," a wigged-out burro painted to look like a zebra wearing a Tijuana headband; and "El Mundo," which featured the earth as a yin-yang surrounded by a rainbowfied ring, held aloft by a buff dude who looked far more Venice Beach than Atlas. As for the tunes, the Growlers churned out their weirdo sea shanties while sipping grog from plastic cups, singer Brooks Nielsen always in a half-lean or near-stagger à la Jack Sparrow. He fantasized about a day ("Someday") when "tall boys turn into champagne [and] bologna turns into steak," and inspired a morbid sing-along with "Sea Lion Goth Blues" ("Oh you never know when it's your time to go"), then dedicated "Gay Thoughts" to the City of S.F. C.M.

This acrobatic, emo-rap, screamo-synthpop, cabaret-core duo can be a lot to take in for the uninitiated. But given half a chance — about a quarter of a set — they may wiggle their way into your heart via intense genre hybridization (there's definitely something for everyone) and their unique charm. While Josh Dun is an explosive skinsman who can execute a mean backflip from atop a grand piano, Tyler Joseph is a dynamo of a different sort, bouncing around stage with a nervous glee that befits a dude who: (a) fast-raps like a version of Eminem that grew up idolizing CocoRosie, (b) strokes the ivories like a Rat Pack reject who got the boot for listening to too mich Xiu Xiu, and (c) shreds as if Cex (sans Pistols) invented punk. Shortly after having an insecure moment over his stage garb ("These are totally girls' pants, and I apologize for that") and dedicating a song to his mother, Joseph performed half of a song while standing on the hands of his fans. Unexpectedly, we wanted to prop him up too. C.M.