Some of the highlights of the third day at the Northside Festival included kids in the mosh pit and a Mummy themed party at Bruar Falls. It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m back at Bruar Falls, where a few tatty pieces of toilet roll slowly rotate around the ceiling fan as weary punters order coffee at the bar. I briefly consider some timeworn hair-of-the-dog remedies, but it’s going to be a long day. Caffeine and a vegan cupcake suffice. The guys who own Cake Shop on the Lower East Side run Bruar Falls. Both venues are designed to appease sweet-toothed sugar addicts and indie rock fans. Our new kidult overlords are in attendance again—this time it’s a batch of preteen kids, who are here with their parents to see three-piece Brooklyn indie rockers Air Waves.

People shuffle into the venue as Nicole Schneit and her band set up. There’s a decent crowd considering it’s only 4 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. Schneit’s guitar tones bear a passing resemblance to JB Townsend’s playing in Crystal Stilts, minus the heavy tremolo. Folk gets mentioned a lot in conjunction with Air Waves, but elements of country and rock have also been assimilated into their sound. There’s a wonderful quiver to Schneit’s fragile vocals, which adds a deeply sad undertow to her songs. Air Waves make perfect Sunday afternoon music. Schneit gives a shout out to the children toward the end of the set, embarrassing them as all eyes turn their way. Clearly these kids aren’t going to rise up and overthrow us (yet).

I bike over to Studio B in the bright sunlight and almost fall flat on my face as my eyes adjust to the darkness inside. “Welcome to the cave,” says a member of The Dodos, who are playing to one of the biggest crowds at the festival. I catch a gust of hushed melancholia from Portland singer/songwriter Laura Gibson before Meric Long and his band begin. Last time I saw The Dodos was in a dingy club in Berlin, where they played tracks taken from last year’s Visiter album. In the sauna-like Studio B, they play a set heavy on new songs—a questionable decision at any festival. Their base template remains in place. Long still thrums a psych-folk concoction from his guitar while disjointed percussion clatters behind him. Standing in a darkened sweatbox isn’t the best way to witness these tracks, which will presumably surface on the forthcoming Time to Die album.

Later in the day, I realize I should broaden my musical palette. Browsing the listings, I’m struck by the lineup at Europa in Greenpoint, which is hosting an array of heavy metal and grindcore bands. Slayer was one of the first bands I ever saw live, and I realize I owe it to my younger self to get my metal on and attend this show. I’m the lone indie boy in the heavily tattooed and pierced crowd. As technical difficulties delay the start of the show, I daydream about the Mother’s Day celebrations between a mom and a man with the words “Hell Awaits” tattooed on the back of his neck. I bet it’s really sweet. I catch a set of pagan metal by Brooklyn band Liturgy. Their set begins with some spectacular Gregorian chanting from the three band members, and then settles into some seriously heavy riffing and requisite cookie monster vocals. The drum machine is the only ineffectual addition—it’s as out of place in their sound as I am in this venue. 

I cycle over to a makeshift loft setup named Shea Stadium after Liturgy have sufficiently crippled my hearing for the rest of my life. This was the scene of Thursday night’s Magik Markers/Marnie Stern debacle (see here for explanation). There’s no problem gaining entrance to the Shea tonight, and I’m just in time to catch a set from Knight School. The three band members clearly have a major obsession with the cult New Zealand label, Flying Nun. I hear elements of the Chills and the Bats as they play, and singer Kevin Alvir innately channels Pete Shelley’s distinctive whine. I get my first Northside goosebumps at their standout track, “Oprah Open Yr Ears,” which causes half the audience to dance and sing and reach that rare point when music can make you forget about everything else.

Fatigue sets in after the elation of Knight School. I’m tired after four consecutive nights of zipping around to different venues. I skip Bill Callahan at the Music Hall of Williamsburg to get some pizza. Sorry, Bill. Instead, I end the festival at Studio B, which has considerably emptied out since this afternoon. Baltimore prog-punks Ponytail have curated this event, which begins with a band named Thank You. Their songs are driven by looping krautrock riffs and a sparse percussion reminiscent of Liars’ Drum’s Not Dead. The repetitive nature of their music is soothing at times, twisted and distorted at others. Thank You are sufficiently engaging, but it’s nothing compared to what comes next.

I’ve listened to Ponytail’s Ice Cream Spiritual enough times, but I never really got it. Here, in front of a half-full Studio B, they sound colossal. This is music filled with an energy that can’t possibly be strapped down on tape. They thrive on wide-open spaces, where singer Molly Siegel can get lost in her own ebullient reverie as she lurches and grinds and exerts a vice-like grip on the front of the stage. Siegel’s Ari Up-like vocals are filled with an unbridled and infectious sense of joy, and guitarists Dustin Wong and Ken Seeno get similarly agitated as they deliver a mind-bending series of spidery riffs. That point at the start of “Beg Waves,” when Siegel lets her trill scream loose, is a great harbinger moment—you just know something special is going to follow that.

The night and the festival ends with a set from Crystal Stilts. It’s late and the audience numbers have dwindled. Going on after Ponytail isn’t a proposition any band would relish, but Crystal Stilts still sound great. Despite extensive bouts of touring, they’re exactly the same band they were when they played every week in small Brooklyn dive bars. Singer Brad Hargett remains the most awkward frontman on the planet, shyly eyeing the crowd and shuffling his feet. Their odd mixture of effortless cool and geeky awkwardness remains intact as they deliver a batch of songs from Alight of Night. Fortunately, Crystal Stilts keep the set mercifully brief so the shattered hoards can go home and get some rest. And we’ll need it—the Northside organizers are already promising that we’ll do it all again next year.