As the second half of August wrings the last drops of sweat from us, it's important to make the most of the time we have left before fall makes us feel like we have to go back to school. To that end, Waste of Paint spent the weekend at three archetypical seasonal entertainments: the sweaty loft show, the grandiose riverside concert, and the friendly beach jam.

This weekend, the Village Voice's own 4Knots Music Festival (full disclosure: well, you know) invaded the major tourist hub of South Street Seaport with entertainments at least as diverting as the stuff that's always there, if slightly more niche. There were rum drinks, nautical stripes, and many instances of sweaty dancing—and even when things didn't quite go as planned, those in attendance rolled with it like so many boats.

This weekend, Waste Of Paint caught four rather different bands united by their status as beloved standbys of the Brooklyn DIY scene. It also marked the beginning of uncomfortably sweaty show season.

Ain't it grand when some sensory input makes you feel like you're on Mars, even though you're totally sober? We devoted this weekend to the weirder side of the New York music scene, discovering two bands just feeling their way in the world, and re-discovering another that's ridden its twisted take on New Orleans blues to relative indie stardom.

Maybe it was just the warm weather messing with my head, but everyone in New York seemed a little bit friskier this weekend. From the black-clad romantics swaying back and forth to Zambri to the feral nerds who worship Black Pus, bands and fans alike were in it to win it.

Tommy Chase Lucas

Better than: Sitting at home crying into my beer over my failure to score Fiona Apple tickets.

Today, bands are offered infinite opportunities for attention; given the right combination of talent and virality, an obscure 18-year-old bedroom musician might wake up one morning to find she's headlining the Fader Fort. But as the many who've faltered on this path (cough, cough, Salem) are all too aware, in order to hold a fickle public's interest, you must also do the legwork of putting faces to MP3s, live performances to YouTube videos. You must, as they say, "live up to the hype," or risk turning into the kind of meme you'd probably rather not be.

The internet-savvy, Montreal-based weirdo-popster Grimes (a.k.a. Claire Boucher) has been at this for a few years now, but her third full-length Visions has generated a fair amonunt of interest. She's understandably been kicking it into overdrive, with SXSW engagements that read like a trendy millennial's RSS feed (Spotify, Pitchfork, Urban Outfitters, Filter, a "secret" headlining set at an out-of-the-way warehouse party that was nigh impossible to get into) and several Northeast dates this month. Despite how she might sound on her albums, Boucher is not some sort of magical computer sprite; she's a 24-year-old made of flesh and blood. So it was unsurprising that when she took the stage at Mercury Lounge for the first of three sold-out New York shows this weekend, she seemed a little worn down.

"Hi, I'm Grimes; thanks for coming. I'm sick and I've been puking all day, so if I miss notes and my voice sucks, that's why."

This week, we packed up our paint and headed down to Austin for the annual hurricane of musical adventure that is South By Southwest. I feel both like I just got to the jam-packed music festival and like I've been here my whole life, and I'm both bummed and relieved to discover that I do not actually live in a perpetual bubble of free alcohol, loud music, and promotional swag.

This weekend brought the end of one driving force in underground music and the beginnings of a new one, all within the confines of 285 Kent. But I'm not going to turn that into a sign of the times re: Where New York's Sound Is Headed, because that would be depressing. (It would also not be true.)

This weekend we found ourselves in the rare situation that all the shows we wanted to see were in "the city": one at the Lower East Side's anachronistically good Cake Shop, the other at hulking mega-club Webster Hall. Maybe it's time to remove that "give Manhattan back to the Indians" pin from my messenger bag.

Remember when you had to drive an hour to a town you'd never been to just to see whatever D.I.Y. shit was going down in your state that weekend? You'd bitch about it at the time, but it gave you a kind of treasure hunt-like satisfaction. Waste of Paint recaptured some of that (suburban) adolescent spirit this weekend by voyaging to two exotic locales: Ridgewood and Hoboken.