I cosign on what Eric said about Randy Jones/Caro and will add that he’s one of the most unlikely-looking soul men working today. And that he achieves the remarkable feat of making house music sound fresh in 2008. And that he probably has an amazing cosmic-disco EP (at least) in him.

Detroit’s Jeremy Ellis surprised the hell out of me with one of the most enjoyable sets of this year’s Decibel. While I don’t have the same qualms about Ellis’ voice as does Mr. Grandy, it is the least impressive aspect of his skill set. Besides the discussed mad MPC abilities and beat construction Ellis displays in real time, he’s also a deft keyboardist with enough soul to play with Parliament-Funkadelic member Larry Fratangelo and Carl Craig. Another thing that marks Ellis as a huge talent is his gift for imaginatively arranged cover versions. He played revamped renditions of Prince’s “Nothing Compares 2 U,” Hot Butter’s “Popcorn,” James Brown’s “Mother Popcorn,” and John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme,” all of which made you appreciate those classics in a new light. Plus, he paid extended homage to the late, legendary hiphop producer J Dilla. During Ellis’ set, a respected Seattle techno producer astutely noted, “Somebody’s going to get their fuck on if he keeps this up.”

Later that night at Neumos, the Decibel Finale got off to a lovely start with Mexico’s Fax (Ruben Tamayo). Using guitar, laptop, and effects, Fax launched My Bloody Valentinesque plumes of lavender fuzz tones and alternately languorous dub and brisk techno beats. The bulk of Fax’s set blurred shoegaze rock into dubby techno, and the result was music of understated exhilaration.

Winnetka, California’s Flying Lotus, by contrast, brought a post-Dilla jaggedness to instrumental hiphop, informed both by IDM’s scabrous textures and astral jazz’s lofty atmospheres. And he brough some heavy, heavy funk. Amid his own tracks from Los Angeles and new cuts, FlyLo dropped Lil Wayne’s “A Milli,” something by Kode9, and that TI$A/Daedelus song with the refrain, “fuck what ya mama say/I’ma vote Obama way.” As much as the crowd dug it, nobody is more into Flying Lotus’ music than Flying Lotus—he really radiates an infectious glee behind his PowerBook.

^{The Bug's Warrior Queen finds a real man at the Decibel Finale. Photo by Ken Roeder of Soulful Elements Photography.}

The Bug (London producer Kevin Martin) done fucked my mind—and probably my very atoms—something fierce. His apocalyptic bass pressure battered and fried me like so much human tempura. Martin essentially turned the entire venue into a vibrator. The material off London Zoo had incredible torque and the beats carried a crushing force. While the heavily FX’d rewinds that punctuated every (truncated) track got on some attendees’ nerves, I could’ve listened to that rippling, bleepy sound for hours. When Warrior Queen got on the mic, her rapid patois upped the energy level. I couldn’t understand a word she said—until, crazily enough, she started rapping in Spanish. The Bug’s dubhall/grimestep assault wasn’t everyone’s cup of hemlock, but no one could deny that this set stood apart from the rest of Decibel like a nuclear missile among Colt .45s.

Neumos emptied a bit after the Bug finished (maybe to catch Noah Pred, who inspired several texts to the effect that he was killing it), but Supermayer—Kompakt Records mainstays Superpitcher and Michael Mayer, playing vinyl and CDs—patiently built up the dance floor again with some Mr. Oizo, House Master Boyz’ “House Nation,” Lindstrøm’s “I Feel Space,” and some funky techno tracks and sweet cosmic/kitsch disco cuts. This wasn’t the devastating climax that past Decibels delivered, but it felt celebratory nonetheless. Director Sean Horton’s traditional closing speech didn’t happen (he reportedly lost his voice) and the lights went up around 2 am. People walked around dazed and smiling, some scheming about the afterhours gig with yet more Supermayer action, others angling toward their beds or perhaps the hospital (thanks to the Bug).

Decibel v.05 provided many indelible memories, plus some deep regrets from the amazing shit I missed. Sean Horton again went all out to book a diverse, high-quality lineup and make Seattle—over the past four days/nights—the epicenter of electronic music in America. He and his able crew of volunteers deserve utmost respect (and, one hopes, some financial reward) for their strenuous efforts.

By the time last night's big Decibel Finale at Neumos rolled around, I was in serious need of a second (or fourth, or fifth) wind. I eventually got back into it, but it took until the very last act of the night.

Which isn't to say the opening acts were sub par by any means. Flying Lotus played a set of immaculate hip hop instrumentals surrounded by dubby effects, gunshots, and Wilhelm screams. Steven Ellison (aka Flying Lotus) rocked back and forth, bobbed his head, and flashed a wide, open-mouthed grin throughout his set (according to some laptop spotters, he didn't do much else though, only tweak effects while a pre-planned set played out.) That grin, though, was hard not to rally behind. Ellison played Mr. Oizo's "Stunt" as well as possible another Oizo track; he played his Robo Tussin remix of Lil Wayne's "A Milli," Daedelus' "Hours:Minutes:Seconds," Aphex Twin's "Windowlicker," and TI$A's "Vote Obama Way"—all fused together with his own instrumentals, warped to his own style. For the Obama track, he tried and largely failed to involve the crowd in some call and response; Seattle or perhaps just Decibel crowds not so much feeling the call and response this weekend. Still, he maybe had the biggest, most obviously enthused crowd of the night.

^{The Bug by Ken Roeder, Soulful Elements Photography}

I missed the first half of the Bug's set, which sounds as though it was somewhat marred by Kevin Martin's far too frequent rewinds on the CD decks (a staple of the style, sure, but apparently he was spinning tracks back after only 30 seconds or so). By the time I arrived, though, MC Warrior Queen was on stage, and Martin was providing her with minutes of music at a time. I've had trouble with patois before, but I think Warrior Queen was harder to translate thanks to some extra fiery craziness on her part. She kept talking about doing a song for "all da real man in da house," but Martin either wasn't into it or couldn't find the right track, so that the song was introduced and diverted multiple times before finally landing. She rapped in Jamaican accented Spanish. She called for the legalization of marijuana (shock horror). Dancehall, even of this digitally distressed variety, isn't exactly my scene, but Warrior Queen was an entertaining MC, and more importantly Martin's bass was just unbelievable, probably the heaviest rumble of the whole festival.

^{Supermayer by Ken Roeder, Soulful Elements Photography}

But it was Supermayer who really got my spirits back up for one last dance at Decibel (much of the crowd, though, took off after the Bug; either Supermayer don't have the same level of hype as the previous two acts, or else people just had to work the next morning). The duo, looking elegantly elfin as always, entered to orchestral fanfare and started their set with a Mr. Oizo song (was yesterday his birthday or does he just make universally beloved tracks?), all analog synth bass and beat, and they kept things simple like that for some time, hard, thumping beats with truly minimal action in the spaces between. I suppose I had expected them to hit more of the fey disco acoustics of Save the World or their recent killer remix of Hot Chip's "One Pure Thought," but this was much more like Speicher territory—they played Sascha Funke, possibly Closer Musik, and "House Nation," all in this vein. They took turns selecting and mixing records and maybe CDS, and when either of them wasn't busy DJing, they were lithely dancing, Superpitcher sometimes waving his hands around as though beckoning or hypnotizing the crowd. It's cute. After a seemingly interminable, drum-less breakdown lit by monolithic strobe light, they finally got into some more euro disco territory with Baxendale's epically cheesy "I Built This City For You" and a dub of the Foals' "Olympic Airways." They played on after the club brought the lights on, and the crowd kept dancing.

Afterwards, there was a private party for the Decibel staff, volunteers, artists, and whatever press could beg their way in. A lot of people do a lot of work to make this festival happen, many of them as volunteers, and it was great to see everyone finally unwinding, happy in a job well done. It was maybe the first time I saw Sean Horton looking relaxed and dancing all weekend. Earlier in the festival, a friend observed that Decibel is great because it makes you feel, for a weekend, like you live in some other city (one Decibel built for you, I suppose), where the parties go all weekend, full of people from different places with different foreign accents, headlined by high-caliber international artists. With each year's increasingly successful Decibel run, though, one imagines it feeling less like a departure for Seattle and more like a part of its regular fabric. Here's hoping.

^{Sun Tzu photo by Brian Geoghagan}

Saturday's Decibel in the Park may go down as the single coolest event of this year's fest—not necessarily the best sets, or the wildest party, but just a really great time. In similar spirit, but with sunny parking lot asphalt instead of grassy lawn, was Sunday's Decibel BBQ. Hosted by Sun Tzu in the Havana parking lot, with chicken or brisket (and sides) for sale along with drinks, the event was a fine way to ease into another day of Decibel (in fact, the one complaint I heard at Decibel in the Park was that there should have been food vendors). It was sparsely attended for Kid Hops' enthusiastic set of sunny dub—after some weakly realized "whoa-oh-oh/yeah" call and response Kid Hops asked over the PA if Dixon had really killed it so hard at the previous night's afterparty that we all just couldn't even talk. Basically, yeah.

The place began filling up a bit for Caro, though. I hadn't seen Caro (aka Randy Jones) for a while, and either he's become really impressive in that time or I just wasn't paying close enough attention before. Jones played lightly buzzing electric piano, a miniature analogue synth (Yamaha CS-01 for the nerds), and laptop. He sang in an overdriven, slightly clipping funk croon. He built rhythmic loops out cowbell, shakers, and his own ohs, ahs, grunts, and exhalations. As one breakdown gave way again to a thumping beat, he deadpanned, "C'mon now," to the slowly warming, moving crowd. It was a great set, combining a touch of Jamie Lidell's vocal tics and live looping with Matthew Dear grooves. He played some new stuff, and apparently he's at work on another album; based on today's performance, I predict that record will be ace.

Next up was Jeremy Ellis, wearing a pale yellow cotton suit and a black leather cap out of which emerged a long red ponytail. Make no mistake, Ellis has some fancy fingers when it comes to the MPC, tapping out busy improvised break beats and drum fills with real skill, as well as summoning up samples and bass and melodies. It was like watching some savant playing Simon. I've previously praised local ER Don's facility with the ubiquitous sampler, but Ellis is in an entirely different league here (although the bit where Ellis plays the MPC with his chin just doesn't look as bad-ass as, say, playing guitar with your teeth—sorry). That said, every time he got on the mic to do some ska scatting or sing a pinched, "soulful" version of "Nothing Compares 2 U" I wanted him to stop. Technically, he's tuneful and skilled on the mic as well, but his style there is just not my bag by a long shot. Still, the music was fine, ranging from soul bounce to loping reggae loops to a drum filled finale that sounded like he had the entire JBs and James Brown in his sampler, which he very well may have.

Sun Tzu did their thing next, combining funky house with live congas and the occasional spot on the mic with the kind of easy skill that has made them an institution around here. It was a perfect way to wrap up the BBQ—breezy, fun, and groovy enough to get the crowd loosened up for the night's big finale at Neumos.

^{Carl Craig photo by Jeanine Anderson from the Strangr Flickr pool}

Seattle local and new Ghostly signee The Sight Below got off to a late start at the Baltic Room's Ghostly International showcase last night, which already had a line out the door at 9:30. Once he got started, though, it was sweet—slow motion, television tube distorted video clips looping above his head while he drew washes off smeared guitar sounds and minimal beats out of his laptops. The comparison that's coming up most with this act is the Field, and while there are some similarities to their dreamy, shoegazy sounds, their methods and their results are markedly different. Where the Field builds his ambiences out of discrete, finely-chopped microsamples, the Sight Below generates his using guitars and pedals, leading to one indistinguishable mass of sound just punctuated by bass, kick drums, and hi-hats. The Field is pointilist, creating the illusion of a constant sound by getting your ears to fill in the blanks, while the Sight Below is impressionist, blurring sounds together with no space left over to fill in. It was a good show to start the evening with, as conducive to spacing out as it was mildly warming to the dance floor.

Up at Neumos, Audion took over from Orlando Voorn, who left him with some low volume loop (and one sudden, jarring stab of sound), practically dead air and hard to tell if it was the tail end of Voorn's set or just some fiddling around between sets music. In any case, Audion had to bring the room up from almost nothing to peak hour, and his set was sensibly one long, unfurling build-up, starting with the more minimal sound typical of Audion's most recent releases and transitioning into harder and more acidic material in the end. The set did its job, stirring the dance floor in anticipation of Carl Craig, but I think it peaked early during a passage where a vocal sample saying, "Burn it down" looped just off time with Audion's bass pulse, beats, and synth lines.

Carl Craig took the stage to some big, bombastic classical fanfare. He dropped the beat and his set was instantly on 10, jumping right into peak hour thump with no delay and staying there for the entirety of his set. He played "Spastik" and "the Bells" and a lot of techier tracks in the first half of his set, switching to housier numbers marked with perfect piano chords, like "Strings of Life" and "Good Life," towards the end. A lot of times you don't know what to expect with the "legends" of a genre—will they lean more on their status than on the sharpness of their skills? But there was no need to worry about Craig; he was fantastic. It was honestly just the most relentless DJ set I've seen in a long time—it wasn't the longest set in the world, but it still never, ever let up for even a minute, it was just on. Afterwards, Sean Horton hopped on the mic to thank the performers and the crowd and direct revelers to the afterparty, and his voice was just shot. One more day left, and it looks like it's going to be gorgeous—time to go get me some BBQ.

What Eric said about Decibel in the Park. Plus, er, respect to the 60something free spirit with boils on his back who was rocking nothing but orange mini-briefs and a tangled, gray, white-man ’fro. I will never forget you (damn it).

Dazed and almost recovered from that traumatic sight, I later headed to Northwest Film Forum in time to catch headliner Akira Rabelais’ performance. Hunched over his gear stage left, he began extremely quietly with keening tones, pings, wispy drones—all of it somnolently engaging. That piece segued into crystalline flakes of Budd-Eno piano plangency, undergirded with microbial susurrations. Rabelais’ lowercase pica music somehow wrung exquisite beauty from the tiniest gestures.

Over at the Baltic Room, the Ghostly International Records showcase drew swarms of fans; a long line stretched far down Pine St. Recent GI local signing the Sight Below hustled over from Rabelais’ set, breathless and a bit late, but he showed us why GI honcho Sam Valenti IV’s a savvy judge of talent. The Sight Below laced his velvet-lined, 4/4 kick drums with vaporous textures and spectral luminescence. His bass tones seemed to bulge the Baltic’s confines in a manner that made me think of those garbage-can icons on your computer screen when they’re full. The accelerated hippo heartbeat rhythms and choral sighs and murmurs recalled Gas and, as Seattle icon DJ Eddie noted, Gustavo Lamas. Sadly, I missed most of Deru’s excellent glitch funk excursions and all of Lusine and Tycho’s sets, but reports from trustworthy sources were glowing.

^{Audion fed us weird things. Photo by Donte Parks.}

To Neumos, where the Detroit Techno showcase was gathering momentum. DJ Chuck Flask ably set the table for Audion (aka Matthew Dear) to tear it up, live. Audion’s shit was so tight, I decided it would be blasphemy to try to take notes. Suffice it to say, his tracks were demonic, druggy, and disturbing, treading into his False style for M_nus Records while keeping the floor thrumming with acidic gusto.

Carl Craig appeared to be using Serato for his DJ set, but nobody cared, because he proved why writers reflexively precede his name with “legendary.” His selections ranged from deep and soulful to accessible and sing-along (Goldfrapp) to twitchy and highly percussive (the way he chopped up Plastikman’s “Spastik” was the sickness) to classic Day-twa techno nostalgia (Derrick May’s “Strings of Life” still instantly provokes arm-waving and cheers). From start to finish, the audience (a way more of serious but kinetic techno-head bunch than was here for Deadmau5 Friday) was putty in his skilled hands. The response bordered on charismatic-church-goer OMFGness.

^{Carl Craig: People quite liked him. Photo by Donte Parks.}

In fact, two of Seattle’s finest electronic-music producers—Jon McMillion and Splinters—told me that they were so inspired by Audion and Craig that they went home and immediately started working on tracks. And those are only the ones I know about...

I’m sure the afterhours party with Dixon was awesome ("Best set ever," according to Jeremy B.), but after the Detroit Techno shebang, anything else would’ve seemed anticlimactic… except maybe tonight's Decibel Finale at Neumos.

^{Jacob London photo by Jeanine Anderson from the Strangr Flickr pool}

Yesterday's free Decibel in the Park at Volunteer Park was ideal. It was sunny and warm, with a big crowd spread over the lawn and in front of the band-shell, from goofy looking ravers to park regulars. Jacob London kicked off with samples of an audience cheering at what sounded like Bobcat Goldthwait grunting and growling and whining and stuttering. Good as Jacob London's productions are, their sense of humor is perhaps their strongest suit. They warped the vocal tics to a rhythm, dropped a beat under them, and got rolling into some bumpy techno. Maybe a half hour into their set, they blew a fuse or something and lost all sound; they did a little Ashley Simpson jig while waiting for it to come back on. After a few minutes, the sound came back, and someone named Sonic MC came on to reheat the crowd while Jacob London powered back up; he said "fuck" and then apologized because of all the "tots" that were around (there were a good amount of kids and families there). Starting over from dead air, Jacob London switched gears to slower tempo, hip-hop and dancehall inflected tracks, with an MC on some tracks and a clipped Modeselektor sample on another. They worked their way back up into some housier territory for the final part of the set. One wonders if the set was going to be so ranging even before the power out; it worked well for the situation.

Truckasauras kicked off with a new song, full of Korg MS 20 bass burps and digital-sounding keys, followed by a few new-ish songs, all of which sound really promising for another record. Tyler Swan wore a Legend of Zelda NES cartridge around his neck as a medallion; maybe some nerdcore dude somewhere has already done this, but I'd never seen it before and it was kind of a perfect look for the Truck—a little bit hip hop flash, a little bit (8 bits) nerd. Adam Swan rocked a big Pepsi cup instead of the usual bottle of whiskey. The other Swan brother stalked the stage in a red, white, and blue top hat, looking like he might try to sell you a used mattress, attempting to get the attentive but stationary crowd's hands up. The Truck also lost sound for a minute, but they were able to recover quicker, gear still dialed in, right on the same beat as where they left off. They played the usual older songs, smoothly transitioning from one song to another where they usually pause between songs, the bass booming rich and deep over the lawn.

^{Glitch Mob photo by Jeanine Anderson from the Strangr Flickr pool}

The Truck may not have elicited much physical reaction from the crowd, but headliners Glitch Mob sure as hell did, the whole crowd suddenly filling the "pit" as soon as the band took the stage and dancing enthusiastically for their whole set. Today, Glitch Mob was two guys behind a laptop and mixer, one of them an affable, confident MC on the mic. Their set started with a deep, muddled voice intoning about "next level shit," "west coast," and "the future" before a rap-rock big beat dropped followed by layers of crunchy, distorted synths. Soon a vocal loop—the MC?—was repeating,"One love make the world go 'round," then "the game is not over" (sadly not a tease for some T. Raumschmiere)—it was like they were nailing every lyrical/sloganeering cliche possible. Brandon Ivers observed that they sound like the music that might play while Xzibit yelled at you about how he installed a playstation in your car. They played a mix of "Lollipop" by Lil Wayne. It was all like Ed Banger for dummies, which I think is saying a lot, the kind of techno you'd expect Zach de la Rocha to drop a "fiery" politcal verse over, perhaps. Kids—literal little kids—were bouncing and flailing around stage alongside candy ravers in fishnets and platform boots. B. Shorty was there with a little dog. All in all, it was about as next level and futuristic as the Space Needle. The crowd sure dug it, though.

Stark contrasts marked Friday’s slate of Decibel events.

The afternoon panel discussion on the future of music journalism (titled “Wasted Words?”—upbeat!) in which I participated, touched on Lester Bangs, the difference between blog writing and writing for print publications, the dearth of good editing these days, Lester Bangs, Luigi Nono, adjective depletion syndrome, critics as shills for labels, Lester Bangs, press sheet flaws, artist responses to criticism, shrinking editorial space, dwindling attention spans, approaches to writing reviews, and Lester Bangs.

Following that event, I somehow fended off suicidal tendencies and made it to Northwest Film Forum's Optical 1 Audio/Visual showcase to catch the last five minutes of Jeff Greinke’s set. He was finessing out elegant wafts of heart-rending, Eno-esque tone breeze and sonic dust motes. You could hear a pen click (that was mine; sorry!).

William Basinski—an artist who commands utmost respect from me—took the stage next. He solemnly handled half-inch strips of tape as if they were sacred eels and examined them under a small lamp. Then he either put them in a beaker or threaded them around some implements whose function I couldn’t discern. It was very ritualistic and baffling.

Decayed, murky drones gradually emerged from his arcane setup, which also included a PowerBook plopped between two ancient tape decks, I think. Gently wavering waves of seashell roar—first tidal and tranquil, then amplified and intensified—filled the small theater. It sounded like an orchestra from a half-mile away slowly sinking into the sea. On the screen behind Basinski were reeds in a pond, placidly rippling. The performance was fairly static, and after 35 minutes, I’d gotten the gist. It wasn’t The Disintegration Loops, but it was delicately entrancing enough.

At Neumos, by contrast, the Dirty Dancing showcase was packing in the well-heeled condo dwellers, who seemingly were rolling on their monthly Ecstasy binge and absolutely mad for it. They were rushin’ and largely Russian. Eastern-bloc immigrants, represent.

^{Luca Bacchetti at the controls. Photo by Kelly O.}

Luca Bacchetti had his share of haters among the Decibel hardcore, but he had me thinking Italians do it better. His tracks were psychedelic, sexy, and clattering—and, yes, repetitive. Hello? Techno is pretty much by definition repetitive. To diss it for that is like bitching about fire being hot. It’s what you do with those samples and loops that separates good techno from meh techno. And when you bring in pitch-shifted woodblock hits, you fucking own, as pitch-shifted woodblock hits are currently the best sound in the universe. Bacchetti’s main-room business set my notebook on fire. So I’m going to have to wing it from here on out. Wee!

Over at Sole Repair, Derek Plaslaiko was playing ballistic, acidic techno—will-to-power, Motor City motherfucker stuff, bassically [sic]. However, points off for using CDs. Former Seattle/now Berlin jet-setting superstar DJ Jeff Samuel muted the shuddering-teshno assault a notch with his patented true-head cuts, subtly pummeling and expertly contoured with state-of-the-art percussion touches. Any time one can hear Matthew Herbert on a fine sound system is a treasurable moment. Believe the Jeff Samuel hype.

^{Derek Plaslaiko after going ballistic. Photo by Kelly O.}

Speaking of which, I had to see if Deadmau5 deserved his share of it. Nearing 1 am, he had the packed Neumos crowd raising arms and “woo”ing on cue. The body heat generated by this nouveau-riche rave was impressive. I also saw Donte Parks front and center getting his groove on. Consider that a feather in Deadmau5’s cartoon-mouse head thingy.

This rodent-masked Toronto producer perfectly calibrates his tracks for predictable build-ups and breakdowns (we humans are eternal suckers for tension and release). But for mainstream hanz in da air tranz and progressive houz, this is about as good as it gets. Hundreds of weekend E warriors may not be quite right, but they sure boosted Decibel’s coffers last night. And only a terminal curmudgeon would begrudge that.