—Caught Detroit techno star Matthew Dear DJing in the Pitchfork tent (insert sexual innuendo here). His deep, minimal set sounded incongruous in the Texas sunlight, but the bass frequencies kept everyone, uh, regular. Later that night he did a fantastic live set under his Audion moniker at Karma Lounge, causing many a pelvis to undulate seductively and fist to pump righteously. It sounded like a soundtrack to a highbrow porn film that will never be made (a pity). Dear’s parents watched proudly from a sofa, stage right. Aw.

—Following Dear in the Pitchfork tent, Swedish quintet Love Is All played a set that could’ve emanated from England circa 1980, as they gouged out the sort of edgy funk rock that dominated the Manchester and Leeds underground circuits back then. They also featured the weakest cowbell playing I’ve ever heard.

—Quote I keep expecting to hear, but haven’t yet: “I downloaded your album to my celly.”

—The sparsely attended (at least early on; it may have filled up for Drop the Lime and label honcho Kid606) Tigerbeat6 showcase at the Velvet Spade patio found the Oakland-based label shifting its emphasis to embrace bands with guitars, drums, singers, and stuff like that. (I will quickly pass over the slapdash opening set by Crunc Tesla, who need to spend more time in the lab before dragging their keytar and rudimentary beats rap shtick onto stages.) Clipd Breaks and Genders evidence this trend with shambolic displays of menacing bass rumbles and flinty guitar shrapnel. The former reminded me of early Savage Republic and Butthole Surfers, with their rhythm-heavy dementia and inchoate, simmering rage. Genders are more on the sparse, avant-dub tip, sounding like A Certain Ratio, early Scritt Politti, and Arthur Russell getting angsty in an abandoned warehouse. Three minutes into Genders’ set, my friend asked, “Have they started yet?” Take that whichever way you want to.

—Over at Oslo, TTC exuded outrageous energy and power, coming on like a goofy amalgam of Onyx, Elephant Man, and Cannibal Ox. This weird-looking French foursome of indeterminate species were rocking it right until they asked all the “lovely ladies in the house” to dance onstage. Then things devolved into mediocre booty tech and a stream of dance-club clichés. Much better were Spank Rock, who bring some Dolemite dynamite to the hiphop live experience, with two fantastic DJs and two galvanizing MCs. If anybody’s funk is hitting harder or with more neon vividness right now, I’ve yet to hear it. What distinguishes Spank Rock is their ability to infuse Baltimore club bounce (the most party-igniting style in the history of party music) and a freewheeling mashup aesthetic into hiphop’s matrix. MC Spank Rock (AKA Naeem Juwan) is a helluva dancer and is prone to drop lines like, “All you white girls shake it till my dick turns racist.” All this and the weirdest version of “Louie Louie” I’ve ever heard.

—Favorite street scene so far: an earnest, ball-capped white dude sitting on Sixth Street with two tiny Vestax turntables and a minuscule speaker, spinning ’60s/’70s funk 45s and captivating many appreciative onlookers. The guy’s name is Gabe Vaughn; I gladly bought his CD-R of Second Line New Orleans funk for $5. Hit him up at pettyglitch@yahoo.com.

—Best sticker seen on a toilet today:
[scrawled on crudely drawn TVs]
I OWN YOU
TURN IT OFF