Hardin Sweaty and the Ready to Go? The Dallas band's name generates a knee-jerk grimace, but two songs into their concerts, most grimaces curl skyward. Riffs that mercilessly slap your face coupled with an enthusiasm usually reserved for hyperactive 6-year-olds produce a sound that justifies and emboldens such a ridiculous name.
Fans of more unpredictable fare should stick around for Mt. Gigantic. Sparse, sleepy lullabies that get sideswiped by the occasional hurricane of cacophony usually come off in one of two ways--emotionally jarring or piss-your-pants boring. If carefully executed, the Bloomington, Indiana, band's twinkle of xylophone and spacey guitar can be endearing, and when the out-of-tune children's choir vocals morph into a gaggle of screeching banshees, the transformation can be breathtaking. But a ham-fisted effort produces a sound otherwise attributed to an asthmatic rhino grudge-fucking a grand piano. Good luck with that, Mt. Gigantic.