So I raced over to the Rhythm Room after work Monday night to catch about 40 minutes’ worth of Ratatat’s set, which was enough time to form an opinion and settle a debate I’ve had with myself about one of life’s most puzzling questions: Do I like Ratatat?

The answer: not so much. Classics, the group’s latest release on XL, was doing just enough to keep me interested. Truth is, I’m a hard sell when it comes to all-instrumental albums (unless we’re talking straight jazz, of course). I like my indie rock with words. Still, the beats on Classics lured me right into that mouse trap of a live show.

After about two songs, my eyes glazed over – which might have had a little something to do with the stage fog overkill. I wanted to like Ratatat. I really did. But, at its core, this is a jam band masked by the electronic label, which means the sweet-banged indie kids have an excuse to pretend to dance.

Each song started the same way – with a taut, crisp and appealing beat – before devolving into this somewhat obnoxious cacophony of blinding lights, stage fog and Steve Vai-esque love-making to the fretboard. As if your senses weren’t paralyzed already, a projector played a running visual show behind the band, sometimes in sync with the music, which at least suggests a form of choreography to it all.

All of the superflous stage gadgetry – fog, glaring lights, visuals – is less a complement to the music than it is a distraction. What you really had to ask yourself is if it weren’t for all the accompanying bells and whistles, could the music stand on its own and engage the audience?

The guitar playing of lead man Mike Stroud (at least he seemed to be the lead man) comes off as overly ironic – head-banging with his long hair, windmills (a la Pete Townshend) and back turned playing to his amp. (Maybe someone has a crush on Jim James?) Then when he talked to the audience he did so with echo effects still on his mic, which made it impossible to hear what he was saying. Ha. Funny. I guess.

It’s possible, as Annie and I discussed afterward, that we’re getting older and with that comes impatience. Even Built to Spill, one of my favorite bands, can annoy me with Doug Martsch’s jam-band noodling on stage. But at least I have something else to hold onto there: words, lyrics, meanings. I didn’t feel any sort of connection like that with Ratatat.

On the upside, Annie says openers Panther and Envelopes are worth checking out.

Ratatat on MySpace.

mp3: Panther | You Don’t Want Your Nails Done
Panther on MySpace.

Envelopes on MySpace.

This may be a rhetorical question, but … Why isn’t Phoenix everywhere yet? From CD to live show, this is a band that is polished, tight and unquestionably brimming with potential. Seriously, get the producers of The O.C. on the horn now.

Phoenix was almost so flawless on Monday night that I found it unsettling. When a band feels so impenetrable, you try hard to find something at which to pick. The only thing I could come up with was that singer Thomas Mars came out in a peacoat. A peacoat?!? It’s still like almost 100 degrees outside. Of course, he shed it during the first song, Napoleon Says (must have been on the set list: “strip peacoat in first song.”). Oh, and he was skinny. Really, really skinny. Jerk.

The band’s set was either impeccably tight or soul-lessly choreographed. I’m leaning toward the former because I don’t want to feel like I’m that jaded quite yet. Even when Phoenix appeared to be playing off the cuff a bit, it had the feeling of being well-rehearsed, which, I realize, is probably a lousy thing to nitpick. The band is as clean and civilized as you could hope, and I was pleased to see Phoenix be bold enough to play the hit single (Long Distance Call) second in the set list and still hold sway over the crowd throughout the night.

Honestly, my only complaint was with the venue, Martini Ranch, which usually is reserved for horrid cover bands (are there any other kind?) and superficial Scottsdale outings. The lighting, especially those terrible stage spotlights, was obnoxious during Phoenix’s set; it’s the band that’s not supposed to be able to see the fans, not the other way around.

Phoenix | Everything is Everything (live)
(From an Astralwerks compilation passed out at the show)

(Thanks to Forrest for providing the digital camera for the evening.)

In lieu of heading to Austin for this year’s ACL Festival, Annie and I took off on a secret trip to Los Angeles. We played with our little 5-month-old nephew (kid loves me) and managed to make it out on the town Saturday night to check out the Gray Kid at Project. (OK, so the $10 donation for the open bar was a draw, too.)

Ben recently turned me on to the stylings of the Gray Kid, and within a day I bought his album, … 5, 6, 7, 8, saw him live and chatted him up about playing a show in Phoenix. Screw LA, man; you haven’t made it till you play Phoenix, damn it.

At first blush, you wouldn’t take the Gray Kid for the lyric-spittin’, beat-makin’ hip-hop machine he is. On Saturday, he was decked out in jeans and a black-and-turquoise thrift-store sweater with a bandana fashioned around his neck like an ascot.

But his beats. Lord. No white kid possibly could be responsible for those. On stage, the Gray Kid flies solo, backed only by his iPod, on which he’s sequenced the music for his entire set.

If his rig limits any sort of improvisation, the Gray Kid compensates with his arm-swinging, sweaty energy. I say sweaty because he was wearing that damn sweater: “Is anybody else wearing wool in here?” That was funny.

He spent a majority of the set standing (and stomping) on a foot stool, like a street-corner preacher yelling off the microphone and flailing his arms to implore the gallery-goers, many of whom were innocent bystanders checking out art but instead got caught up in the flurry.

What can’t be overstated about the Gray Kid’s stage presence is his level of interaction with the crowd – and, in this case, the artists working on a live mural during the show. Granted, performing in the corner of an art gallery on a makeshift stage affords a more personal experience than any club show. But the Gray Kid walked through the gallery whilst singing and (gasp!) made eye contact with fans, even if maybe it made them a little uncomfortable.

Oh, about the music? He’s a bit of a chameleon – singing falsetto one verse, rapping the next. It’s mostly unpredictable. What do you say about a guy who can rap that he’s got a “dick like a comet” (Like a Comet) and then lay out soulful crooning (Lonely Love) without a hint of irony? (And he goes unplugged, too.)

But do yourself a favor. Buy … 5, 6, 7, 8 and listen to One Question, a dis track that’s worth the cost of admission alone when he claims, “labels couldn’t hold me like a charge on cheap phone.”

The Gray Kid | $$$Clip