Read the full City Lights pick here; deets below the jump:

Widespread Panic performs with the Allman Brothers Band
Tuesday, Oct. 6 (today!) at 4:30 p.m. at Merriweather Post Pavilion
10475 Little Patuxent Parkway, Columbia, MD
(410) 715-5550
$40-$75

“I’m having a lot more fun than I thought I would,” said Kings of Leon frontman Caleb Followhill, sweat dripping down his newly trim hair into his stern blue eyes. “I thought you like, wouldn’t be here, or, wouldn’t know who were were, or…”

He said this to a crowd of at least 7,000 bellowing fans Tuesday at the Merriweather Post Pavilion, where the Kings played a two hours of pulsing pop rock, roughly half of which were off their most recent album, Only By the Night. Caleb and his band of tightly jeansed kinfolk might have acted surprised by the high squeal factor of the boiling sea of an audience—which appeared equal parts sleeveless dudes and doe-eyed girls (the one in front of me was wearing a shirt reading “It’s my baby!” and nearly had a conniption fit when the guys played “Knocked Up” during their encore set)—but given the band’s arena-rock turn on its latest record, this is the sort of crowd they should learn to expect.

We missed the first few songs due to car trouble and an overcrowded lot that forced us and the other latecomers into an office park about a quarter mile away, but the song that played our arrival—“Fans”—seemed apropos as we politely elbowed our way into the pavilion. “Fans,” from the third album, Because of the Times, is a model of form following function—a bouyant pop paean that instructs its muses to “rock to the rhythm and bop to the beat of the radio.” Votaries from the band’s earlier, indier years years might have preferred the Kings not embrace the idea of radio pop so openly, but the adoring masses at Merriweather cheered wildly at this and other new-fan favorites such as “Sex on Fire” and “Use Somebody,” the display screens on their digital cameras glowing like moon jellies.

Their stoic stage presence notwithstanding, the Kings went big and they went loud, Caleb hitting the rockstar notes with his simultaneously torn-up and pitch-perfect voice. “This is the most fun I’ve had at a show in a long time,” Caleb said as the set drew toward the end. “That means we’re going to come back real soon.” I swear I felt the cheers resonate in my kidneys. Native sons of the American South and pop idols in the U.K., it appeared by night’s end as though the Kings of Leon had successfully made a fiefdom of Maryland.

Footage from those moon-jelly digicams is all over YouTube, but the ear-caving volume of the show made for a lot of clipping. The below video was taken from far enough away to capture the audio pretty well, if you don’t mind getting seasick. For the full effect, plug your computer into a speaker stack and swallow it.

By now, this might be ancient history in Internet time; but after the jump, check out a quick preview of the 200+ photos in the full gallery. Plus, I’ve penned my thoughts on each of the festival acts in two sentences or less. Keep in mind that in my effort to cover every band, I didn’t see a single full set. And there are just some bands about which I have absolutely nothing to say.

The Birthday Massacre: Wait, did I accidentally show up for the Warped Tour instead of Virgin Fest?

St. Vincent: Just as I was surprised that Explosions in the Sky were successful at an outdoor pavilion, I was surprised that Annie Clark and co. were equally successful in a festival setting.

Mates of State: Good set, probably would have been better-served on the more indie-rock West Stage.

Wale: He’s got the stage presence and the charisma, hopefully he’ll have the music to match soon enough.

Taking Back Sunday: Yeah, OK. Nice HRC sticker on the guitar there.

The Hold Steady: Band seemed much more enthusiastic than the crowd. Maybe everyone who wanted to see them already did the night before at the 9:30 Club.

Jet: Does anyone care?

Public Enemy: Yeeeeeeaaaaahhhhh boyyyyyeeeeee. Chuck D holds it down and Flavor Flav still does his thing even at age 50 (!).

The Bravery: People were into it. Tons of crowdsurfers.

The National: Following Public Enemy wasn’t ideal, but playing their relaxed indie-rock as the afternoon light faded into evening was, very much so.

Weezer: OK, I admit it: they put on a good show. But I still have trouble getting behind songs that are intentionally this dumb.

Girl Talk: You know exactly what to expect with him, and it’s still pretty fun. Especially for the folks onstage.

Blink-182: These guys just aren’t very good. But why do I know so many of their songs?

Franz Ferdinand: What strikes me as cheesy on record comes off intense and fun live. Great closing set for the West Stage.

The dance stage: Pretty relaxed vibe. Lots of people there to be seen and really psyched about having their picture taken.

The fans: Generally well-behaved, despite the fact that the venue was selling pitchers of beer (see immediately above). Enthusiastic except during the lengthy soundchecks.

Publicity stunts: None more absurd than two dudes jumping out of a helicopter, landing on the pavilion roof, and being greeted by Richard Branson with a bottle of champagne. What?

Free stuff: People go crazy for it. No matter what it is.

Full gallery here.

When that is the most common thing one hears said about a concert, it would seem to indicate that something was left to be desired. It was a stroke of PR genius to make this year’s version of the Virgin Festival completely free, after it became clear that the lineup was not going to live up to the standard set by previous years. So while there was a lot to complain about on Sunday, from the bizarre decision to turn pavilion seating into a free-for-all to the fact that, well, Blink-182 were the headliners, hey – it was free. And in this case, concertgoers got much more than what they paid for.

Public Enemy (pictured above, Flavor Flav) drew by far the biggest crowd to the festival’s secondary stage, and delivered a set worthy of the distinction. I enjoyed a few other sets here and there, particularly over on that second stage (St. Vincent, Girl Talk, The National were all fun), but really, Public Enemy alone would have made the whole thing, um, worth the price of admission.

The full set of photos is forthcoming, but check out a few teasers after the jump.

Weezer:

The National:

Franz Ferdinand:

St. Vincent:

Wale:

The Bravery:

Virgin Group chairman Richard Branson handing out free beers:

Fan early in the day at the pavilion stage:

More to come.

Seeing The Flaming Lips live is an experience rather unlike anything else, and these photos speak for themselves. Be sure to check out Jason Cherkis’ interview with Lips frontman Wayne Coyne for more on the band and their forthcoming new album, Embryonic.

Lots of photos after the jump and at the full gallery.

Full gallery here.

Legend’s little brother, Vaughn Anthony, was the first opener, and it’s well that he was not so presumptuous in his selection of a stage name as big brother. Anthony’s songs seemed primarily vehicles for conveying past sexual conquests in anticipation of future ones. Apropos, he shed articles of clothing as his set progressed, revealing a physique that was more well-developed than his musicianship. His voice was fine, but not terribly interesting—a mixture of crooning vulnerability and blunt sexual confidence. It would not surprise me if he makes piles of money.

India.Arie, the sporting what might be the first Gmail-inspired stage name, sought to restore purity to those besotted by Anthony’s laciviousness with a series of life-affirming, thoroughly unsexual spirituals. She was graceful in song but decidedly awkward in between-song banter, where she gesticulated stiffly like a malfunctioning robot while holding forth in jejune terms on “the sort of, you know, interconnectedness of all things.” (This might have been what she was getting at…) Her songs were more articulate, professing a philosophy of positive thinking, personal strength, and self-love. While Arie’s lyrics occasionally resembled what you might find in the spiritual/self-help section of your local Barnes and Noble, her earnesty and lack of image consciousness was refreshing in light of Anthony’s striptease/kiss-and-tell (and, to an extent, Legend’s messianic theatrics); the only article she shed during her performance–in a revolt against affectation–was her dreadlocked wig.

Legend, for his part, struck a subtle balance between his brother’s lechery and Arie’s righteousness in a performance that was anything but subtle. Dressed all in white, Legend appeared in the audience beneath a Biblical pool of light (and surrounded by cherubim in the form of three enormous bodyguards) and kicked off the show with “Redemption Song” — an implicitly Obama-inspired tribute to a forebear whose legend is a matter of status, not surname.

But this brief nod to politics gave way, in short order, to monstrous dance grooves. “Forget about the news / let’s put on our dancin’ shoes,” Legend proposed on “Slow Dance,” a smooth, Temptations-style tune off his second album, Once Again. He led by example, beckoning a smitten audience member to the stage to join him for a meta-dance. Other times he left the dancing to the rest of us, jamming on the piano as his band kicked up a whirlwind. Legend’s guitarist–a stoic whale of a man whose name I’d mention if I could find it on the band’s Web site–gave a technical clinic while managing to appear completely unimpressed with himself.

Legend’s music, for the sake of convenience, is often described as R&B. But Friday’s show demonstrated the folly of pigeonholing him. At times, the performers summoned a maelstrom of rock-’n'-roll so epic as to overwhelm the modern R&B trope–particularlywhen “I Can Change” suddenly exploded into the Beatles‘ “She’s So Heavy.” Others songs, particularly those featuring Legend at the piano, assumed the form of Burt Bacharach-style parlor pop , with the singer showcasing his effortless command of the instrument with twinkling mid-verse fills. More often than not, Legend would source multiple styles within a single song. All hung together by the common thread of his voice: a chesty tenor, adroit enough to preclude any suspicions about studio voice-doping but with just enough strain to sing, “we’re just ordinary people…” and have us buy it.

He’s underselling, of course. John Stephens might not be a Legend yet, but I’ll grant him extraordinary.

Nine Inch Nails (above, Trent Reznor sweating a lot) and Jane’s Addiction played to a large, enthusiastic crowd on Tuesday, despite crazy thunderstorms and hail just before the show’s start time. After the jump, some images from this very visually appealing show. Full gallery here.

More Nine Inch Nails:

Jane’s Addiction:

Check here for many more photos of both bands.

Here’s what you need to know about The Decemberists playing The Hazards of Love in its entirety on their current tour: on prog-rock bulletin boards, folks are comparing this show to Genesis performing The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway in the 1970s.

Hazards of Love sounds awfully proggy on record, and live it’s got all the telltale signs: a theatrical presentation (including costumes of sorts), a ridiculously fantastical concept/storyline, lots of Hammond organ and other keys, a gratuitously long children’s choir section… everything to make the latent prog fan inside you start drooling. And the thing is, it works. Before last night I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the album, but its highlights are exhilirating in the live setting, especially those featuring the powerhouse vocals of My Brightest Diamond’s Shara Worden. Set the absurd concept aside and the music stands on its own remarkably well.

More photos and thoughts after the jump. Full gallery here.

Colin Meloy and company were on last night, blazing through the Hazards of Love material and then playing a short second set that drew at least one song from each of the band’s full-length albums, plus a couple surprises (including a cover of Heart’s “Crazy On You” that was basically an excuse for the band’s two guest female vocalists to wail). The selection tended to the mellow—for instance “Red Right Ankle,” “Engine Driver,” and the gorgeous, moving encore of “Sons and Daughters.” For this last, Meloy mentioned that the band had made a side trip to tour the White House, and in the spirit of what they felt during that visit, he had the audience join him for the song’s ecstatic refrain, “Hear all the bombs fade away.” It was probably the only song more perfect for an encore closer than “The Mariner’s Revenge Song.”

I saw the Decemberists’ show in Richmond last Friday as well, and came away from that one less than satisfied – the band fucked around too much, making jokes to the point that it killed the flow of the concert and hurt the actual performances of the songs. At Merriweather, thanks to a strict time limit on their set, the band were forced to tighten things up a bit, which had a hugely positive effect on their show. After all, prog-rock might revel in its excess, but it’s always best with at least a hint of moderation.

Robyn Hitchcock and Andrew Bird opened. Merriweather isn’t the easiest place to get to from D.C., so I missed Hitchcock’s set, but Bird’s performance was predictably great and photos of it are included in the full gallery. A teaser:

I nodded at the child strapped to his back. “You folks are in good company, then. The Beautiful People are out in full force tonight.”

“That’s what they tell me.” The child had begun pawing at the man’s baseball cap. “Say, I’ve been wondering: is it true that Pamela Anderson gave hep C to Phil?”

“Sounds like a dirty rumor.”

“I can believe it,” he shrugged. “They both live in Cali….”

I encountered Mr. Unassailable Logic an hour later at the stage-left lawn entrance, where he was shaking down the tie-dye crowd for coke.

“Come on, you guys gotta hook me up,” he told successive barefoot gaggles. “Hey—yayo? Yip? Anybody?”

“You gotta quit that stuff, man,” ventured a well-wisher.

“Hell, I’m not even looking to party—but I gotta drive back to Pennsylvania tonight and I’ve got work tomorrow. I just wanna travel safe, you know?”

Well shucks, Mr. Logic, I can’t say that I do. But then again, I only came for the music.

The bands, of course, did not disappoint. (At these events, most people know exactly what they’re paying for…and if somehow they don’t get it, the fault is not in the stars.) Phil Lesh & Friends played a marvelous set of Grateful Dead gems, standouts including expansive takes of “Eyes of the World” and “Cassidy” and a jabbingly glorious “The Other One.” Larry Campbell, the greatest contemporary sideman-for-hire not currently playing for the Allmans, led a phenomenal guitar attack, paying deference to Garcia while sharpening the blues licks—his interplay with Barry Sless on pedal steel was a definite highlight, as were the rhythmic contributions of Jackie Greene. Greene’s fluency as lead singer was also a treat, especially for those of us who worried Phil’s voice wouldn’t be up to snuff (it was, though not on par with the tyke’s). “Sugaree,” the encore, was Greene’s finest vocal moment: bluesy, exalted, dead-on.

The concert also offered a glimpse of one particular tangle in the genealogy of jam—a tangle named Warren Haynes. Campbell is a third-generation stand-in for Haynes, who performed frequently with Lesh after an estimable stint as lead guitarist for the Dead (a Jerry-less regrouping of the surviving original members), and whose own band, Gov’t Mule, is an offshoot of the 90s Allman revival.

Revival—duh—is the name of the game at these concerts, and if Lesh & co. channeled Jerry, the Allmans played hot enough to wake the dead (or, you know, the garrulous wrinkled couple dancing next to you). Haynes and Derek (nephew of Butch) Trucks light up this band—if there’s a better two-guitar front on the planet these days, I haven’t heard ‘em. Trucks, a slide mastermind, can elicit drunken moans, angelic sighs, and metallic thunder from his Gibson, all with a nearly passive equanimity. Absentminded, like a man tying his shoes.

Haynes, meanwhile, manages to balance dizzying above-the-fretboard slidework with a bellowing presence at the microphone. On “The Weight”—which resurrects the Aretha/Duane collaboration as much as it does The Band’s original—Haynes proves himself one of our finest white soul singers. And his manipulation of the wah pedal during a “Dazed & Confused” digression (placed immaculately before the dénouement of “Mountain Jam”) constitutes a three-minute aria.

And then there’s Gregg Allman, whose voice has only gotten better in the last ten years (cf. Monday’s rendition of “Dreams”), and who now looks something like St. Nicholas.

The encore, “One Way Out,” kept the crowd shrieking for more and rendered powerless the hitherto draconian Merriweather dance police. The Allmans weren’t losing steam and probably could have played all night. But why push their luck? The band’s already on its third wind.