Oops...we said it again
The parking lot was a full-bore clusterfuck when we arrived on Cannery Row for The Dynamites show around quarter of nine, leading us to surmise that our alcoholic asses might not actually know what day or time it was. (We woke up in a love seat at the How I Became the Bomb house earlier that day, and who knows what sort of ascot-bedecked atrocities they had committed while we were unconscious.) Ends up we were at the right place and right time after all, but there was an event downstairs that was described to us as "art and models and people that think they're in L.A. and shit." Glad we missed that.

We didn't know what to expect from The Junkyard Horns. We new that The Dynamites' Chris West was leading the charge, but other than that it was anybody's guess. What we got was the funky, funky Saxpocalypse—five saxophones, trombone, Hammond B3 and a rhythm section so tight it made Mother Teresa look like a trollop. The Horns laid down some seriously deep jazz-funk grooves from the likes of Grant Green and Herbie Hancock while we got uber-geeky and bludgeoned innocent people with our drunken dissertations on Grover Washington Jr. and the awesomeness of Motown's jazz subsidiary Kudu Records.

Saying "we saw The Dynamites last weekend" and "they get better ever time we see 'em" is getting a bit redundant so we'll just say...fuck it, we're gonna say it again. The Dynamites get better every time we see them. They played a medley of new tunes that were awesome, veering from the James Brown '68 hard funk sound of their debut album toward a more Allen Toussaint/New Orleans bounce that has us drooling in anticipation of the new album. When Charles Walker tore into "A Change Is Gonna Come" we almost cried, and their version of the Betty Harris classic "There's a Break in the Road" made us lose our little minds. The Dynamites are off to conquer the world this summer, and we have complete confidence that it's going to happen.

No handstands
Most of us have little faith in the concept of trickle-down economics these days, but if there's anywhere it can be effectively applied (however loosely) it's the live music circuit. With so many acts converging on Austin for SXSW, it's inevitable a great many of them come through town on the way there or home, thus benefiting all the little folk who couldn't afford to go. Saturday night was one such case when Brooklyn band Chairlift came to Exit/In, bringing along fellow New Yorkers Acrylics. As you well know, we are anything but punctual and this put our arrival just a bit after openers Oblio finished up. We were, however, well on time for Acrylics, with whom we were completely unfamiliar right up until the moment they started.

What we got was slow-burning, steady-rocking, dreamy garage pop with a surfy, psychedelic undercurrent, iced over with ambient synths. Toe-tapping shuffles and hip-swinging bass grooves were locked down underneath seductive harmonies to create a sleek mystique that occasionally wandered into noisy, hallucinogenic dirges—only to ebb back into pedal steel-driven slow jams. Shorter songs kept the leisurely tempos from dragging, and solid songwriting made us feel like these tunes would be safe at any speed. Following Acrylics, we—along with a nicely packed room of folks—spent an irksome 45 minutes staring at an empty stage waiting for Chairlift to grace us with a set.

Fifteen minutes of plodding drum machines, garden-variety Europop grooves and stock seagull guitar effects later, we decided it wasn't quite worth the wait. Our previous exposure to this band was limited to a 30-second clip played during a recent iPod Nano commercial. But unlike that jaunty single-turned-jingle, the rest of their repertoire droned on like an 808 dosed on soft-rock Rohypnol and locked into an aimless jam session. We were soon on a downhill cruise to snoozeville. Short, atonal interludes counteracted the clomping syncopation, but did little to break the monotony.

That said, if there were other haters in the house, they were in short supply. The rest of the room applauded graciously after each number, and at least half the crowd urged on the obligatory encore during those awkward moments after the last song has ended and the house music hasn't cut back on.

Hail to the Keith
Sunday's Save Cowboy Keith benefit—held in honor of local legend Cowboy Keith Thompson, who sustained serious injuries in a recent scooter accident—turned out to be a most-of-day and all-night affair that included a scooter rally, BBQ, silent auction and concert at The 5 Spot. We showed up around 2:30 to find that we'd missed the departure of those participating in the scooter rally. We chowed down on refreshments and awaited their return while braving increasingly oppressive wind conditions that inevitably forced us to go inside the "purple building" to check out the array of books, DVDs, music memorabilia, gift certificates and Rock Band video games being auctioned off for the cause.

By the time we made our way into The 5 Spot a few hours later, the club was already swarming with East Nashville bohemian types who were, by and large, sporting either the antiquated look of Opry performers circa 1956 or the antiquated look of West Virginia miners circa 1900. Onstage was David Peterson, who sang and yodeled traditional AM country songs with a voice that sounded like butter would've melted in his mouth, while bearing a striking resemblance to Jack Ruby. What's not to like about that?

Next up were the self-proclaimed "loud band" of the evening The Clutters. With monster open hi-hit beats and chunky guitars, the old-fangled foursome sounded tough as ever.

Following The Clutters' savage blast of rock 'n' roll came Reeves Gabrels, whose '80s bar-band sound could have been the perfect score for Roadhouse. Throughout the majority of the set it felt like a cover of Alana Myles' "Black Velvet" was just around the corner.

After a short break, the guest of honor received a hero's welcome as he was brought onstage to play a short set that proved his temporary wheelchair and ghastly mechanical brace on his right arm are no hinderance to his chops on the six-string. He closed his set with a mostly instrumental rendition of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing."

For the main event, BR549's Chuck Mead led a band—featuring the "Jedi knight of hillbilly music," Chris Scruggs, on lap steel—for a nearly two-hour Last Waltz-like set that featured guest performances by Gail Davies, James Intveld, Garry Bennett, Dave Tanner and others. The band and singers divided their time between tender slow-dance numbers and upbeat hoedowns, with couples in the audience dancing as if they were at a cotillion class. Things got exceptionally pulp when the band brought up Los Straitjackets' Eddie Angel to provide the soundtrack to a short routine by local burlesque troupe Panty Raid, briefly turning the benefit into a bitchin' beach party. Given the company we were in, it should almost go without saying that the musicianship all night was, across the board, stellar. We made our way out of the club at 11 p.m., exhausted and inspired by the spirit of giving that our fair city has to offer.

The first five bands to email a photo of yourselves smoking weed to thespin@nashvillescene.com are guaranteed a review in next week's column.