Demonomania
Holy shit, we can still hear! It's a miracle! Wednesday night's show at Mercy Lounge with doom merchants Sunn O))) and Eagle Twin might have been the loudest show we've ever seen, in a career filled with earsplitting episodes. Hours afterward, we could still feel the sub-bass of Sunn O)))'s epic power drones pulsing through our bodies—and no, it's not the DTs. Those feel totally different. Thank God we actually wore earplugs for once.

The Spinn O))) arrived just in time to catch Salt Lake City's cataclysmic drum/guitar duo Eagle Twin lay down some gnarly shards of deep-grooved, feedback-strewn metal. While some of our sweater vest-wearing, Walkmen-listening, Beatles-fellating acquaintances might not see the appeal, this is the stuff we live for—over-fuzzed low end, blistering guitar solos and thundering drums. Cranking out the better part of their excellent debut The Unkindness of Crows, Eagle Twin had clearly won over the crowd of heshers, punkers, preppies and rednecks by the time their all-too-brief set was over. Those dudes are some serious melt-face motherfuckers.

Sunn O))) was anti-climatic, which is kind of the point—they are the biggest, loudest ambient band the world has ever known. Their set started with nothing but guttural chanting straight from a Mario Bava movie and the hiss of fog machines, and the crowd's anticipation became palpable as visibility dropped down to three, maybe four, feet. About 10 minutes into the intro somebody turned on the stage lights and the crowd went nuts—10 minutes after that, the band came onstage. Sunn O))) are nothing if not tempered and deliberate, with subtle changes in tone or position becoming seismic shifts as they rung out through the wall of amplifiers on the Mercy stage. On top of their own rig, Sunn O))) had the all of the subwoofers from the Cannery brought up for reinforcement—y'know, so you couldn't miss anything. If you were standing outside. Across the parking lot. Over by the Frist Center.

Our eyeballs were shaking and intestines reorganizing as vocalist Attila Csihar incanted demonic poetry and made evil-y gestures with his fingers. And while they may not have hit the brown note, the combination of sub-sub-sub-bass and cheap beer definitely found the yellow note—totes super weird, really.

We took that as a sign to step outside and catch a moment of fog-free air, only to find the entire facade of the Mercy Lounge—bricks and all—vibrating in time to the music. In-fucking-tense. After our breather, we went back in and found Csihar had stepped up the showmanship, donning gloves with lasers on the fingertips. Thank God we hadn't scored any hallucinogens before the show, 'cause those laser-gloves would have freaked us the fuck out. We would have been cowering in a corner, clenching our ass cheeks and praying for deliverance from the Devil's Yoga Soundtrack. And we would have missed one of the most mind-bending, ass-kicking shows we've seen all year, which would have been a shame.

Crooked reign
It takes a lot to get us out to a show by 8 p.m., especially to see a supergroup, of all things. So there must have been a good reason, right? Well, this supergroup has Dave Grohl, Josh Homme and John Paul Jones in it. Figuring it was enough to ask the audience to sit through an hour-and-a-half of songs "no one knows," the band found it best to forgo an opening act. Thank God.

By the time we made our way inside, War Memorial Auditorium was packed to the gills. Not since the debut of Oysterhead have this many garden-variety rock fans come together with such high hopes. Them Crooked Vultures have not even so much as released a single—the only thing people have to go on are some YouTube clips that'll make you seasick—so the only way to truly hear the band is to see them live. And as they took the stage at what Homme proclaimed as their 10th show, the place went nuts.

So what did they sound like? Not a whole lot different from what you'd expect: fuckin' balls-out rockin', brah. More like a cross between Queens of the Stone Age, Nirvana and Led Zeppelin than Eagles of Death Metal, Foo Fighters and Donovan, if that's what you're wondering. Basically, since Homme is steering the ship as lead singer and guitarist, it basically sounds like he's found his dream rhythm section to comprise the new incarnation of QOTSA. Homme is one of hard rock's last innovators, and he's got enough smart-alecky swagger and good ideas to get away with not being named Robert, Jimmy or Kurt in his present company. The songs we heard typified what Homme is good at: writing music that's smart, yet will sound great blaring out the windows of a mud-covered pickup truck. Just when something would start to sound predictable, the band would throw in a rhythmic curve ball or left-field melodic flourish to keep us on our toes.

As made evident by the house lights-cuing ovation he received during the mid-show band introductions, the biggest star of the night was John Paul Jones. Jones, however, did not spend the show displaying the giddy, "Hey, I'm onstage and back in the game" blush that would overtake most aged rockers in his position. Instead, he looked serious and played with a determination to let people know they weren't just there to see some fossilized veteran, but to hear something fantastic.

Dave Grohl was all smiles. Forget the fact that he can still headline Wembley Stadium and sell millions in his own band. Despite having turned us off by comfortably slipping into torch-rock territory on the last few Foo Fighters records, Grohl is still "our hero" when it comes to poundin' the skins. Throughout the night he grinned away while doing his best Animal impression—never losing a beat or letting the intensity drop. The argument over whether or not he is this generation's John Bonham is now officially over.

What was most striking was the band's chemistry. At no point in the show did they ever lose the full undivided attention of the audience—quite a feat in a town full of musicians and with a set of songs that were brand-new. There is no doubt that they exceeded expectations. All in all, it was easily the best 10th show by a band we've ever seen.

Dan's, Dan's revolution
Due to an intended all-ages demographic and a conflicting city-wide curfew, rock o'clock was pushed up to prime time Monday night, and a roomful of youngsters arrived at The End at 8 p.m. on the dot.

The night was off to a rollicking start as former MEEMAW frontman Daniel Pujol kickstarted things with some upbeat, freewheeling bluesy jangle pop. The angsty scream-singing and absurdist pop culture references from his last band are vaguely shadowed now and replaced with a smooth-sailing croon laid down over a swift beat and relentless guitar strum—resulting in what could be best described as attention-deficit psychedelia. Pujol and his mates occasionally dip into a noisy, noodling instrumental dirge, but never wander too far into the deep end before returning faithfully to a hook.

Soon after, former one-man band Totally Michael covering The Village People's "YMCA." Michael still plays guitar and sings along to prerecorded synth and drum machine tracks, but is now backed by a drummer able to match his own hyperactivity. Steeped in irony and self-aware to a fault, Totally Michael's jams all build from a pop punk base with some New Wave keys sprinkled on top, dipped occasionally in artificial hip-hop and R&B flavors.

Next up was a visually arresting and sonically disturbing treat from Baltimore's Nuclear Power Pants. Assaulting the crowd with menacing costumes and a black-lighted backdrop, the eight-piece band elicited a collective "WTF?" with some frenetic, eclectic chaotic punk rock complete with droning dual lead vocals, squelching, defective, circuit-bent synths and a trio of backup singers. It was as if Sid and Marty Krofft pre-imagined The Blues Brothers on a fatal combination of Ritalin and Robitussin.

By this time the house was packed and growing increasingly impatient for the main event to get underway. Backed by a wall of speakers adorned in Halloween masks and colored tape, headliner Dan Deacon set up on the floor surrounded by his own light show, delaying his start until the venue was entirely pitch-black. He proceeded to ramble into the mic a bit, lead the crowd in a Casio-backed rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In," rambled a little more and led the audience in a series of stretches along to Simon & Garfunkel's "Cecilia" before really kicking things into gear. Neck-snapping tribal beats (which resembled death metal) laid the foundation, over which dinky bass melodies and layer upon layer of synths, pitch-bent vocals and erratic lights provided an epileptic's nightmare.

With half his shtick relying on audience participation, Deacon couldn't have asked for a better crowd. A floor full of whippersnappers were more than willing to do his bidding as he emceed a dance contest and created a human tunnel that led out the door and onto the street. Say what you will about the youth of tomorrow—they're punctual, they love to rock 'n' roll, and not even your curfew can stop them from having a good time.

Is there some kind of protective vest we can put over our liver? See you out for Next Big, people, and email your schedule to thespin@nashvillescene.com.