Weeks later, I’m posting this here instead of where it was going to show up. “I don’t know what I just read or attempted to edit.”

I walk into Whale Tooth’s press-kit-clear pub rock at the Horseshoe on Thursday, December 1. They’re stomping with seductive force; any cougars reduce themselves to torn hosiery and running mascara. The “we’ve-heard-of-punk” pop rock is tight, but drips with a naive, “we’re a real, hard-working rock n roll band” ardor that’s more deluded than gritty. It’s telling when singer Elise Legrow complains that the mall has Christina Aguilera on repeat. Are you the teen tearing into obvious targets, as if Britney’s decades of airplay are the last obstacle between you and your Joan Jett fantasy?

Do you have any other boring opinions? What gets Whale Tooth off? Facebook says: the Beatles, Bob Marley, Mother Mother, Tegan and Sara, Dylan, Pink Floyd—all the sophistication of supplementing your dad’s CDs with the smoother side of college radio circa 2005.

Am I out of touch or is everyone in those crowd photos tasteless? Whale Tooth is recommended for your friend’s mom who casually repeatedly mentions that she saw Heart when she was eighteen.

Crystal Stilts lurch onstage, Stooge decrepit, and blanket “Sycamore Tree” and “Through the Floor” in all the records’ somnolent reverb, but somehow even more exploding plastic inevitable. The friendly psychedelic backdrop doesn’t shake the feeling.

The set leans on the songs they’ve rehashed since 2008. Crystal Stilts have a mood and sound bred by balding men haunting the boutique record shop where you found that White Light / White Heat import. The low, bored vocals are drawn out through standing still impressions of her losing control. They have synth figured out. The swirling screeches marry phantom feedback and tape disintegration on the rhythm section’s loose leash. Are they the last refugees of ‘80s Velvet imitation chic, surfacing a quarter century late? Re: the lights: “They’re never supposed to see you sweat.”

“Love is a Wave” comes 11th, a playful pick me up after ten cuts of copacetic lethargy. Notes fade and everyone leaves the stage, amps left on.

The crowd that chanted for an encore from Whale Shit assembles scattered mumbles into enough noise for Crystal Stilts to “OK, we’ll play some more. Someone had a great compliment for us: ‘I checked you out. Some of your songs are really short.’ We’re going to play the CCR version of ‘I Heard it Through the Grapevine’.” Instead, the bass starts blending the building, and everyone starts swaying and nodding, pace, direction and intensity uncoordinated. It’s the appropriate, polite response, until the second song’s grinning misanthropic climax hits, the guitar juts out, synth fucks in circles, and feedback disrupts the comatose junk vibe. Nothing as conceptual as walking with Jesus, just guys listening to good records.

Crystal Stilts, Whale Tooth, and Doledrums at the Legendary Horseshoe Tavern, December 1, 2011

The stage bulged at the Horseshoe. Smash a guitar and pawn the keyboard, then flip a coin to decide if you’ll keep the sax or an extra guitar. A lot of people had fun during Young Guv, and a disproportionate number were holding instruments. The song-writing exists, but the polished pop rock is inefficient, bleaching away any power pop jags in the bloated ensemble. The saxophone added a droning persistence but the keyboard and three guitars only underscored that Young Guv is as inclusive as Toronto is eager to embrace an unspectacular live set from an artist known for solo singles.

Where I stood, The Men were physically painful to listen to. A Confusion is Sex shirt held the bass against an amp until The Men burst into a set of noise screaming in every direction away from hardcore. There might be parameters to their sound but they’re broad enough to sound hardcore playing a catchy song with vibrato arm-manipulated feedback, then dive into a proto-Birthday Party cover. My ears buzzed all Saturday, but I’ll endure it again in a heartbeat.

Release a couple widely-deemed-acceptable records every year for half a decade and see where you are. Thee Oh Sees find themselves in desperate need of an editor. The guy-girl vocals and delayed whoops don’t sound bad, but they aren’t fresh either. Classic garage riffs and Ramones progressions fucked up and affected are pleasant, but when they sprawl outwards six minutes each and the dance floor is balding in front of you maybe playing fast isn’t enough to be exciting. Adjustments begin with expelling the second drummer.

Thee Oh Sees, The Men, and Young Guv at the Legendary Horseshoe Tavern, October 21, 2011.