Flaural, 1867 Bar, 9 p.m.
By Hunter Arias
The Denver-based quartet Flaural corralled everyone into psychedelic a time machine and lifted everyone in the 1867 Bar to the 1980s with their synth-riddled set. The band opened up with a track that sounded like it was crafted by a psychonautical Johnny Marr. Lead singer and bassist, Collin Johnson, provided a sweet and savory touch of brit-pop soul with his syrupy voice and driving bass lines.
Nearly the entire set was laced with a fuzz guitar that swirled about the mix and added a cosmic fragility to the music; the essence of the word “trippy.” Sometimes the synthesizer provided the same touch, adding a lucidity to the stomping drums and spring-loaded guitar which shot in every-which direction.
Johnson raised his Hamm’s in the air, gave a shoutout for the following band, Triptides, and rolled into a triumphant ride into the sun. The bass sat as a melodic backbone for the keys to slide around in the space of the song and simulate being hurled through time like animated adventurers Mr. Peabody and Sherman.
After giving a call out to their recently released album, “Postponement,” which dropped in April, the group confidently drove through their final two cuts for the night. The second of which included a tremolo-saturated jam full of haunting falsetto vocals and hunks of delayed everything being launched through the audience.
Triptides, 1867 Bar, 10:30 p.m.
By Hunter Arias
The Los Angeles trio, Triptides, went right for the psych-rock funny bone in their opening song which sounded like a loose interpretation of King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard’s “The River.” While not as intricate as King Gizzard’s rendition, it proved to be a heated and touching jam, and the audience responded likewise. The track was a highpoint in the set and a righteous introduction to the band.
As the performance progressed, it was clear that they knew how to take bits of beloved musical history and translate it for the modern psych-rock consumer. Many of the guitar solos sounded note-for-note like a George Harrison composition, and the drums accented the guitar with smashing John Bonham-like intensity.
On the other hand, many of the band’s selections would have been well-received in the post-Nirvana 1990s as they bled the same rainbow-colored blood as tracks by Sublime and Blind Melon. Even the slower songs were moody depictions of somber Seattle love stories.
And the love was in the air for the band’s obligatory four-chord originals, that were no doubt a little dated compared to the other more intricate originals they performed. Total Kinks vibes filled the bar as the band bleated “I know, I know, I want to be free” at a faster and faster pace until the audience completely lost its minds. It’s collective mind remained missing for the remainder of the set, and legend has it, they’re still searching today.
Psychedelic Porn Crumpets, 1867 Bar, 12 a.m.
By Hunter Arias
As an adept deception of the crowd’s eager psych-rock ears, Psychedelic Porn Crumpets led its set with a borderline reggae original full of expedited half-note runs and blasting percussion. With virtually zero gaps between the first few tracks, the band consistently changed its musical attitude on a moment’s notice. Transitioning from heart-wrenching dreamy synths to frenzied jams filled with yelps and hollers, Porn Crumpets catered to every audience member’s tastes on an almost personal level.
The long curly manes of the five Perth, Australia, natives draped over their faces as they shook the 1867 Bar into an ego-death submission with their next couple of wild jams. The band then announced that it just drove eight hours to be there, and arrived just two hours before its performance, much to the audience’s approval.
Porn Crumpets actually seemed to fit right in amongst the local Lincoln music scene. The band’s hurried screaming and blasting snare hits were very similar to other nearby acts like Wichita’s Kill Vargas and Lincoln’s own The Credentials, albeit with a nearly worrisome trippy twist.
The addition of a second guitar to the band’s typical lineup meant they were able to really lay into the harmonies found on their newest album, “And Now for the Whatchamacallit,” which was released last May. The band was a little too loud and ambitious for the space that the 1867 Bar provided. Naturally, this called for a much more intimate show where the hardcore fans were enjoying the close quarters in the most appropriate manner — a sweaty, depraved mosh pit.
Charly Bliss, Zoo Bar, 11 p.m.
By Mark Champion
After the rain did it’s best to pour on Charly Bliss’s parade, the Lincoln Calling festival organizers had no choice but to call an audible and move the set from the expansive Duffy’s Backlot to the cramped Zoo Bar. The bar, as expected, was packed to the brim with moist music lovers, belligerent football fans and the Zoo Bar’s usual blues crowd — the odds were stacked two-to-one against power pop rockers Charly Bliss.
But from the first majestic, drawn out synth growl of the opener to both the set and their newest album “Young Enough,” “Blown to Bits,” it was clear the band was up to the challenge.
The four-piece from Brooklyn, New York, got the crowd moving at the first chance it found. Each member of the band was grooving with every note they played, and the passion they poured into that playing overflowed onto the audience. The performance elicited thoughts of the legendary punk passion of Jeff Rosenstock.
Frontwoman Eva Hendricks commanded both the emotion and energy of the audience with her incredible, piercingly high vocal range and Music Man St. Vincent Signature electric guitar. Flailing around in spastic fashion when the music elicited it, Hendricks became the connecting piece between the band and the audience, delivering the passion of the songs she wrote straight into the listener’s ears.
From start to finish, the band’s emotive rock ‘n’ roll sound was incredibly versatile, hitting points where it sounded like it was playing a powerful Bruce Springsteen ballad and sections where the band could have blown the roof off the Zoo Bar with the punk energy they summoned.
Meat Wave, Duffy’s Tavern, 12 a.m.
By Mark Champion
Whether you find yourself skating through an industrial factory zone or enrolling yourself into an underground fight club, Meat Wave has the music for you.
The three-piece from Chicago played wickedly powerful punk rock tunes that threatened to turn the entirety of Duffy’s Tavern into a whirlwind of moshing. The band had a furiously threatening amount of energy in their music that had the audience brutally headbanging.
Shirtless drummer Ryan Wizniak propelled the unstoppable force forward, creating a relentless quarter-note punk rock groove. Frontman Chris Sutter barked his lyrics through the microphone like an angry pit bull, and bassist Joe Gac picked brutally banging basslines through his bass slung almost to his knees. Together, the band’s sound created an angry-yet-free feeling like surfing down a wave of dead bodies — only after hearing the sound does the band’s name make sense.
While the venue’s music remained playing over Meat Wave, the harsh, piercing noise of the band easily drowned out the disco interjections that peeked through every time the band finished a song.
Whomever was running the lights for the show made sure to turn on the devious red lamp for the furious three-four time outro to the band’s song “Leopard Print Jet Ski,” which perfectly accented the bloodthirsty sound of the song that, following the way it was recorded, ran without skipping a beat into the even more hardcore “Bad Man.”