8:45pm. That's when Blanky – the first of four acts on a midweek bill – began. Forty minutes. That's how long the opening band played. Terrifying figures for someone over fifty. I was already tired, but Blanky frontman Anthony Cunard looked like he could stay up all night. More accurately he looked like maybe he hadn't slept in days. Blanky is his project and he's always changing it based on his mood and collaborators. This set covered the gamut from breathy slowcore strumming to howling blues-infused alt rock to aggressive winding indie rock. Not even Cunard's conversational baritone was a guarantee. Cunard was joined by frequent drummer Jacob Eckhardt (aka Jacob E.chord) and new bassist Joe (just Joe). Eckhardt is a snappy player prone to inserting unexpected and interesting quirks, while Joe's repetitive bass lines built foundations strong enough to support the meandering adventures of Cunard's guitar. Most of those adventures sounded like they involved dust, cacti, moonlight, and peyote.

Blue Horses of Death followed. It's a mysterious band name befitting the mysterious project. Led by the vocals and disjointed guitar of Brad Highnam, the quartet played a short seventeen-minute set of slow songs that lurked somewhere between indie rock and country. The vibes were thick. Kenia Balquier (of the similarly well-worn Tw33dy) provided rhythm guitar and occasional backing vocals. Bassist Dan Ohm played simple lines in compositions that begged for country-styled turnarounds that they never got. I suspect the unresolved tension was intentional. Fill-in drummer Diyana was punchy, pushing the songs forward when they naturally wished to settle in. By the fourth number Highnam's mumbled vocals cleared up, brightening the short set's final numbers. The audience was told that most of the set came from the band's current cassette. I can't confirm that as I've not picked up a copy yet – I'm waiting until I've wrapped my head around the act's art. I wonder if I ever will.

Locals Genre played third. This is a band that I love, one that I seldom see, and one that is not interested in my thoughts in the slightest. Now I understand how negging works. The foursome is equal parts DIY twee and heady angular post-punk, placing them at the improbable intersection of Beat Happening and Pylon. Have they been reading my diary? The foursome filled the cozy Hillsiders stage, hemmed in by an absurd number of fans who filmed, danced, and sang only inches away from the performers. Diyana's cracking emo-fueled vocals created ramshackle bliss, juxtaposing the clean poppy vocals of Waxeka. Waxeka's bass drove the crew forward, allowing Diyana's guitar the freedom to slash, Aoife Conway's drums to jump and punch, and Beau's small synth to add accoutrement that was neither melody nor foundation – it was just fun. And that's Genre.

Last up was a rollicking rock 'n' roll quintet from Indianapolis called Good Flying Birds. It was nearly 11:30 when Kellen Baker (vocals/guitar) stood on stage asking Susie Slaughter (tambourine/vocals) if they should wait for the audience to return before playing (revelers often disappear to the small venue's ample patio between acts). Slaughter thought not, and so the quartet leapt into action. The audience quickly rematerialized. Good music always summons them back. Baker and Slaughter were joined by Luke Cornette (bass/moustache) and Ari Bales (drums). The former provided lots of melodic bass lines, while the latter offered popping drums and expressive fills. The band's short twenty-minute set walked the line between power pop and garage rock, and even occasionally dipped into some loose Spoon-esque slacker indie rock. But this wasn't a set about vibes. Songs were short, melodies were front and center, every tune included a tight guitar solo, and Slaughter shook the bejesus out of that tambourine.

I will never complain about a short set (did I mention this was a four-band Wednesday-night bill yet?), but Good Flying Birds left me wanting more. So here's hoping the act will make the trip across I-70 again soon, and maybe even on a night not so terror-inducing for us olds.