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Sunday’s concluding Noise Pop festivities took place at the legendary Bimbo’s 365 cafe, a complete departure from the comparatively run-down areas of ‘Frisco we’d been checking out the bands at thus far.  It was there that two completely different kinds of folk bands squared off against one another: first, the Joni Mitchell-esque Watson Twins, with their docile harmonies, tambourine taps and strummed acoustic guitars. Their rivals were headliners Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, more of a Mamas and The Papas-type of family band who drove the crowd nothing short of koo-koo, Dizzy Balloon-style except with a lot more of the unwashed masses. For those who have never been, Bimbo’s looks a lot like the Overlook Hotel from The Shining; its decadent, roaring 20’s interior boasts a grand ballroom, red velvet everything and a bar that eerily resembles the one Jack Nicholson heard voices at. So. Come play with us Danny!

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The final act of Saturday’s Noise Pop Festival edition, Memory Tapes mustered enough interest and energy to bring out the irritable side of the crowd, even at close to 1 in the morning — and one that was the angriest we’ve seen so far at the festival. Which was great for a change, because there’s nothing worse then a bunch of half-asleep festival-goers and drugged-up hipsters nodding off to the latest in experimental music. And with the eccentricities behind “Swimming Field” and “Green Knight,” The Tapes showed that even some of the most peaceful and soothing music doesn’t make for much of a peaceful crowd.

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Night One of The Noise Pop Festival, cont’d: After jumping back into Glenn’s hatchback, we sped off to The Independent to catch the next act. It was packed. Rib-crushingly, lung collapsingly, I-Didn’t-Know-Armpits-Could-Smell-That-Badly packed. Which proved, in its own masochistic way, to be quite awesome, as tight and intimate quarters often force you to get to know your neighbor before you violate (maybe purposely) their personal space. Like most of The Soundtrack of Our Lives‘ shows, the audience tonight is the fanatical, saber-rattling twenty-something sort, and chances are if you asked anyone, they’d have said they were indeed here for TSOOL (DUH). Dig a little deeper with others, and they’ll argue that Nico Vega completely owned the show and will soon be the toast of the California indie rock scene, or at least a band with a frontwoman who deserves every accolade hurled her way.

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Stumbling through the hotel room with a Scanners-worthy migraine the morning after the first night of Noise Pop coverage ( read: a result of the always dependable cocktail of cheap beer, white noise, amp feedback and angry indie youth), I think I can safely say that yesterday defined insanity, most famously described by Einstein as “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” After jumping in the car with the photographer, we rushed off to Slim’s, only to learn that Tempo No Tempo would be going on a bit later than the club told us originally. The management were a barking, constipated sort who insisted that my badge was fake and refused to give us a last minute +1 or even a regular ticket for Glenn’s assistant. “We’re sold out!” the guy in the box office snapped, jabbing one of his sausage-fingers at the tiny sign beside an understandably bulletproof window.

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