Glossary, Wes Floyd and the Daisycutters, Oliver Dodd, Korean Is Asian, Chris Crofton, Ballhog and more

Stabbing Wess-ward
Do people seriously still go to the Christmas Parade? It certainly seems like they must, because traffic was one gnarly bitch as we tried to make our way to 12th & Porter Friday evening. We surprised everyone—even ourselves—by arriving right on time, just before Caitlin Rose kicked off her Hammertorch-backed set.

Rose and the boys did their best to warm up a crowd that was pin-drop quiet. Like, Thanksgiving-just-after-your-brother-told-the-family-he's-gay quiet. Painful. As always, Little Miss Rose tried her heart out to fill the empty space with her trademark charming and tangential banter. Rose sounded great, though the band most definitely could have been tighter. Regardless, steel player Steve Daly's playing was heavenly, and we've seen Rose deliver enough stellar performances that we'll excuse her a loose set or two.

After sound-checking their brains out, Glossary started in on a performance that, although it was kick-ass and tight, still didn't get the partially cowboy-hatted, heavily balding audience away from the corners of the room or anywhere near the stage. At least not initially; it took some Southern charm-imbued coaxing from the band to get folks to acknowledge that they were actually at a rock show.

Glossary were practiced in a manner that comes along with being a band for the better part of a decade, and, like a countrified Thin Lizzy, they exuded feel-good energy that was pretty disproportionate to the crowd's. Honestly, we don't care how often we've heard "Little Caney" or "Almsgiver"—they're solid gold every time those heavily bearded Murfreesboroans play 'em, and we'll stand by that.

Now, have you ever wondered what it might have been like to see Better Than Ezra, The Gin Blossoms or Hootie and the Blowfish before they made it big? Well, friends, wonder no longer. For God's sake, Wess Floyd and the Daisycutters did enough stompin', struttin', monitor-foot-proppin', rock grimacin', amp climbin' and self indulgin' to last us a lifetime. Four leather-jacketed, cowboy-booted, "whoa-oh"-packed songs were enough to coat us in a layer of oblivious awkwardness that just wouldn't come off in the shower. Unless these dudes are aiming for the middle of the road (and they very well may be), six to eight months of hardcore self-examination is what the Spin Doctor prescribes. Nothing personal, it just wasn't our speed. We prefer something with a set of balls and its own identity.

First we take Manhattan
Saturday night, The Spin went to a private party. Or a public party in a private place. In either case, it was in a home studio somewhere in East Nashville, and the party was put together by the party-promoting folks who go by the name Berlin. (Note to the party-promoting folks who go by the name Berlin: When you tell The Spin we are on the "guest list," we assume that means we get in for free. We kinda thought that was understood.)

Anyway, after getting our name crossed off the "reduced list," we walked past the trash can fire and into the party, which was not at all like jumping from the frying pan and into the fire, because it was pretty chilly inside. But mostly, it felt like we were somewhere in Second Life. Two or three people were dancing. Some dudes were just sitting there, facing the DJ tables. Some dudes were just standing around watching the two or three people who were dancing. Some people were talking to people who were sort of half-dancing. There seemed to be no focal point in the room. Someone we didn't recognize was DJ-ing, and he gave way to Oliver Dodd, who reminded us that you can play a hypnotic bass groove over and over again and then, when you just kick some hi-hats on top of that, the whole thing starts to really move.

Our favorite character of the whole evening (or at least tied with the very serious-looking couple who went into the bathroom together) was a fellow who seemed to always be texting someone or Web-browsing on his phone—a fact that did not keep him from dancing, from the waist down. He almost looked like he was on a treadmill, or playing DDR, or like we were watching some sort of awesome real-life split-screen. He blew us away with his text-dancing. And his hoodie had "Toilet Love" printed on it, which only added to the mystique.

We will be honest and say we didn't know headliner Stewart Walker from Martha Stewart, but we assume that was him with the lightning bolts on his T-shirt, since a few dudes seemed to get real interested when he took over the table. He was also the biggest showman, in the sense that he did some stylish fist-pumps when punching in a new track, or whatever it was he was doing on his computer/bank of gear. The crowd, which ebbed and flowed a lot (partly for smoke breaks, which had to happen outside), threatened to turn the joint into a dance party, but it never really got going while we were there. We left kinda early, 'cause really—$4 for a beer, at a house party, where we paid a cover? C'mon, now.