We're still in catch-up mode. Apologies to those bands maligned in the process.

Kilverez is from St. Louis. This was the quartet's first visit to KC. It was a confusing one. Crunchy guitars with thick tones played through huge Mesa/Boogie amps defined the band. Grungy not metallic. A bit of discord. Scratch that, a lot of discord. Was this actually a noise rock band? Those roiling guitars were trying to tell me something, I just never understood what it was. Maybe next time.

Jorge Arana Trio followed. The KC threesome confused in different, more definable ways. Jazz collided with post-punk in a set that was mathy, though skewed toward chaos rather than rigid 13/8 angularity. The guitar tone was shrill thanks to an effects-strangled ESP played through a small Roland Jazz Chorus combo. The bassist climbed up and down the neck in impossibly long runs. He was focused. I was perplexed. Arana sang on much of the new material, breaking from the project's instrumental past. There was still nothing close to the ABABCB standard. He slipped over to his Korg SV-1 when different chaos was sought. Near the end, that keyboard was looped, paired with pounding drums, surrounded by a walking bass line, and stabbed at by the pointed guitar. Ellery Queen never plotted a murder so complex.

Somewhere after 9:30 Hoaxes took the stage. A KC quartet. Not one I'd seen before. Or heard. Or heard of. Or one whose members I recognized from the scene. What a confounding night! The band drew lots of fans. Or maybe they were just friends and coworkers. The group paired clean and sincere vocals with complicated indie rock that featured lots of guitar leads. Loud ones from big half stacks. Something very '90s about the group. Something very college. Something Pixies-like, just not as clever. Yet another crew that I couldn't put my finger on. Am I losing my touch?

Denver's Pink Fuzz closed the night. I hadn't done my research, so when the singer did her mic check by crooning "Movin' Out (Anthony's Song)" I wondered if this was real life. Over the next forty-five minutes I'd decide that Billy Joel didn't have much sway over the band's high-powered garage rock 'n' roll. Maybe Nashville Pussy. The act's eight tuned-down, fuzzy hard rock songs were colored with everything from hair metal to swampy classic rock. The drums were brick-on-the-accelerator insistent. The guitar player was in constant motion. Long pigtail braids dropped from under his trucker hat. His guitar was held aloft more than it was worn. Lots of solos. Fast ones hollered impolitely. He offered some high backing vocals to match the singers, but both voices were buried under the stage volume. It was loud. Luckily, watching the bassist do backbends with her Rickenbacker didn't require much fidelity. It also didn't require the audience to untangle any knots or solve any puzzles. Nope, nothing confusing about Pink Fuzz. Thank goodness.