The Beets are the best-kept secret in New York City, but not for much longer. It’s 1am on Friday night in Brooklyn and the three members of The Beets are stuffed into a tiny corner at the back of Bruar Falls. Guitarist Juan Wauters is clearly their leader. Juan wears no shirt and is barefoot. He spits indecipherable lyrics into the air and bears a passing resemblance to a young Shane MacGowan. Hopefully the aging process will be kinder to Juan. Behind them a scrawled banner demonstrates their proud Queens roots: ‘We Are The Beets From Jackson Heights.’

Every instrument and vocal is drenched in so much reverb that it sounds like they’re performing inside a soggy towel. Juan’s quirky onstage mannerisms are reminiscent of Country Teasers head honcho Ben Wallers, while the rest of the band look like they’re skipping high school. Their MySpace page cites the Beach Boys and Tom & Jerry cartoons as their primary influences and, just like their Queens brethren, the Ramones, The Beets really only have one song that they constantly retool. The last time I saw them, packed into a sweaty basement at a house party, the NYPD came and booted them off stage. Tonight, there’s no stopping them. For the second time at the Northside Festival, I’m truly blown away.

Skip back an hour to Public Assembly in Williamsburg and New Jersey band Screaming Females are having a similar effect. They’re at Blondie-esque pains to point out that Screaming Females are a band, but the star power of singer/guitarist Marissa Paternoster is irresistible. She’s five feet tall, looks like a teenager, but plays with the passion and experience of a veteran blues man. Marissa is an old soul trapped in a young body. Her voice mirrors the deep baritone of Kathleen Hanna in her Bikini Kill days, and she possesses the most perfectly guttural rock & roll scream since Kurt Cobain. Those are some lofty comparisons right there, but they’ve earned them, and the smiling faces all around Public Assembly hint that everyone knows Screaming Females won’t be playing venues this size for much longer.

Prior to Screaming Females, I catch one song by two-piece Brooklyn band Sisters, who I’m hoping to see in full later today at Death by Audio. I’ve seen Sisters before—they’re like a pocket two-piece Dinosaur Jr. clone, with big amps and big hair. More about them tomorrow. Turn the clock back half an hour and I’m over at Union Pool, where Sightings are playing a bone-rattlingly loud set. They sound like a cross between early Killing Joke and New York No Wave band Mars. Beefy singer Mark Morgan looks like Lou Ferrigno and Glenn Danzig, and is every bit as terrifying as that implies. As he takes to the stage, Morgan snarls at a couple in the front row: “Your conversation will end now.” Sightings are wonderfully surly.

As I arrive at Union Pool, I see one song of aggressively melodic punk by Pterodactyl, which is in stark contrast to my prior appointment at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. I’m ostensibly there to witness the genteel folk of Icelandic singer Ólöf Arnalds, but I arrive early to check out the BrooklynVegan photography exhibit, which features work from Prefix photographers Lori Baily, Chris La Putt and Natasha Ryan. Excellent work, guys. Arnalds is sweet and charming, effortlessly winning over the unconverted with her engaging stage manner. She treats her instruments like people, remarking that one of her guitars is angry at her, and often provides spoken word commentary on her songs as they progress. Her beguiling cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire” is a highlight, and she frequently invites the audience to provide vocal assistance, with surprisingly harmonious results.

We end this report at the beginning, with an early show at Studio B in Greenpoint. One of the biggest bands of the festival, Sunset Rubdown, is playing this show at the mysteriously early hour of 8:30pm. Technical difficulties delay their set, and I while away the time by watching Witchies, who are a pleasant if unremarkable rock group fronted by a dead ringer for Midnight Oil singer Peter Garrett. I’ve never really connected with Spencer Krug and his various projects, and tonight isn’t a great way to become acquainted with Sunset Rubdown. A man in front of me spends the entire set keying away at his Blackberry with one hand and raising his other hand aloft, caught somewhere between devotion and distraction. The kindest thing I can say about Sunset Rubdown is they remind me of a less pompous version of Rush. Krug is caught up in more technical difficulties as I leave Studio B to begin the long and winding road that ultimately climaxes with the beatific splendor of the Beets.