When I arrived, Drew Black was lying on a pallet of blankets and pillows with two friends like some sort of sheik in a vaguely racist '50s film where Gene Kelly wears a turban. But Black had it figured out – it was canonically a nice night to be lounging outside. Soon, I was so comfortable in my red plastic Adirondack chair that I wasn't jealous that no one was feeding me grapes and rubbing my temples.

The musical entertainment started at 8:15 with Hexicharmed. I'd seen the trio before, so I knew enough not to have expectations. Not that the threesome featuring guitarist/vocalist Josh Slocum, bassist Spencer Bergman, and drummer Ben Chambers isn't interesting – actually, it's just the opposite. The musicians pull from multiple scenes and assemble a mind-altering sonic affair that's truly captivating – just one that's hard to pin down. Slocum favored fuzzy tones and covered his compositions with leads that only abated when he shifted to clean, metal-tinged solos. Bergman's fingered bass bubbled up or roiled under it all. Chambers was a rock drummer, playing a support role and leaving space for the players around him. How is this a trio? The forty-minute set included instrumentals that nodded to Link Wray, as well as vocals that owed a debt to Dylan. It was all rock & roll – except for when it was twangy punk or bewildering multi-suite prog. Slocum frequently lobbed fun banter at Bergman that ricocheted out to the audience. He teased songs that the band never played, getting cheers from the audience before letting them down humorously. Maybe the only thing you should expect from Hexicharmed is a good time.

Drew Black and his Killer City cohorts took the stage once it was dark. He doesn't seem much like a daylight guy. He wears sunglasses even at night. His long hair is always tousled and big. He's thin and gangly. A Nick Cave-like frontman. A little odd. A little dangerous. A little depraved. A lot cooler than us mortals. Probably wigged out of his mind. For this set he sang and played guitar with assistance from regular cohorts Alex Yoffie (lead guitar) and Zach Hodson (drums). Normally there’s a bassist (Austin Safford). There used to be a second vocalist, but every time I see the band it’s different. Black's vocals were impassioned, though often sat low in the mix. Maybe that mystery was intentional or maybe they just seemed low as I buried my earplugs deep to compete with his Les Paul-through-Orange-amplifier bravado. The tone was, I must admit, superb, and the two guitars interlaced well. Maybe bass isn't necessary. Yoffie handled the leads. Big ones. The act was bluesy. In a way that recalled PJ Harvey more than the by-the-numbers Black Keys approach. A few fans danced. A few drones were flown to capture footage. Black swatted at them like Raoul Duke driving a convertible through the Mojave. Or maybe that's just how he dances.

The twelve-song set ended right at 10:00, but no one was in a hurry to leave – especially not me. I wanted to try that blanketed den of iniquity.