Brooklyn's Yeasayer has so much madness happening in its chameleonic music that it's almost illicit. Was their 2007 debut, All Hour Cymbals (We Are Free), the unlikely future of freak-folk? Sting-friendly world-pop? Avant-garde posturing? Twisted Americana? The nth stoned coming of Brian Wilson? White tribalism run amuck? The answer's probably something like "all of the above," which makes it difficult to settle on a definitive, ultimate opinion of Yeasayer. From song to song—and sometimes from movement to movement—it's a different band, as if a propensity for perpetual identity crises were a key facet of the quartet's DNA. What's for sure: These guys aren't your run-of-the-mill indie-outsider weirdoes. They're on to something, even if exactly what that something is remains unclear. With Chairlift.
Thu., Oct. 30, 9 p.m., 2008

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