Better than: The $7 Bud Lights on sale, marketed generically and dimensionally as "12oz beer." Cool story, Irving Plaza!

People were packed into the helpless rectangle of Irving Plaza, walled off from the stage by a barricade and a thin photo pit yet still within intimate distance. Jack's Mannequin frontman and pianist Andrew McMahon said a few times during the night that he chose to play at Irving Plaza because of the closeness of the stage to the crowd. I was in the photo pit for the first song; within seconds McMahon had leaped over me to the barricade, where he could selectively merge with the crowd.

That was a connective element to the show: McMahon's ecstatic leaping. From his chair, onto his piano, into the angled arms of fans, with a weird exactness. Otherwise he was gliding insanely along his piano as if the two movements were interrelated. McMahon's music has a grounding warmth, even while it is manic. There's a feeling of home, of being understood by a familiar place; all the while McMahon darts through hooks. When spotlights retreated from the stage, the musicians were mostly amplified by modest lamplight, one over McMahon's piano, another behind bassist Mikey "The Kid" Wagner, implying the warmth of home.

Better than: Any California jamband since Garcia died.

A great rock guitarist needs a signature affectation. Ethan Miller's happens to be an abrupt upstrum that, combined with a backward stagger, probably makes him something of an onstage hazard to his bandmates. When he really gets into it, as he does with elemental regularity, the Howlin Rain leader resembles a spasmodic marionette under the influence of a power greater than himself—call it the power of rawk. With his long thinning hair, big black beard, and "special shirt"—as he referred to the spiffy brown vintage-'70s number he was sporting—Miller also sometimes resembles a defrocked rabbi on the run. And when he opens his mouth, the history of classic arena-rock vocals passes before your ears in a full-throated wail embracing the combined spirits of Bruce Springsteen, Rod Stewart, Leslie West, Greg Rolie, and the ghost of Freddy Mercury.

Better than: Trying to catch a cab outside of Lincoln Center.

First, a confession: I had never been to Lincoln Center in my four and a half years living in New York City. I was not prepared for seeing this show with a backdrop of Central Park, Columbus Circle, and a good chunk of the New York skyline. I was more wide-eyed than ever before, proving my still-developing New Yorker-ness. In a way, I was like Bill Callahan himself, wondering (him aloud, me inwardly) what we were doing here on a Wednesday night, playing/listening to country songs while staring out into the metropolis's night sky.

Callahan started out on a very strong note, coming out to the best song from last year's majestic Apocalypse: "Riding for the Feeling" is a slow roast, a warm cup of your favorite coffee, enjoyed next to the fire as snow batters your window. His voice was somehow more present and alive than on record, its imperfections strengthening the song's impact. The acoustics in the Allen Room really amplified every note from the dual guitars and the soft drumbeats. It sure helped that every person seemed to be holding their breath; at one point, I swear I heard a piece of paper rustle across the 400-something-capacity room.

Steve Gullick

Better than: Drowning.

Mark Lanegan has a voice. You know? It's like those super-high-definition photographs of people that don't get airbrushed, that show the lives the subjects have lived in every wrinkle and mole and imperfection. Lanegan's instrument is like that, all weathered and scarred and those flaws somehow making its already existent beauty more arresting, more devastating.

Better than: Waiting for the official tour.

When it comes to music rooms with a stunning view, it was tough to beat the penthouse at the Cooper Square Hotel (now André Balazs's unfortunately named The Standard East Village) last summer, when Annie Ohayon's L'Afrik C'Est Chic series featured guitarist Amadou Bagayoko and his singing wife Mariam Doumbia during a handful of stunning evenings. As the setting sun created spectacular effects on the surrounding architecture, the couple from Mali, who also happen to be blind, performed stripped-down versions of their repertoire inches away from a stylish international crowd shoehorned into the bar. It was sort of perfect.

Amadou and Mariam's equally minimal invitation-only appearance at The Box was less so, although still something of a treat. It came at the end of a day dedicated to shooting a video for "Wily Kataso" (Go Home) from the fiftysomething pair's April release, Folila (We Came to Play the Music). Guest vocalists Tunde Adebimpe and Kyp Malone from TV on the Radio were also on hand. As members of the production team gesticulated wildly from the sides of the stage, the four singers lip-synced as videocameras filmed the dancing crowd. It didn't take much to manufacture enthusiasm. The audience had already been primed with attire suggestions such as "artist hipster," "Warhol-esque dance party," "Manhattan business professional," "sexy night out," and—best of all—"TV on the Radio urban." As Duffman might say: "Oh yeah!"

Benjamin Lozovsky

ALSO: See more photos from Jay-Z's show at Carnegie Hall

Better than: Slacking off.

The age-old question about how one might get to Carnegie Hall rattled in my brain as I headed uptown last night, en route to Jay-Z's first of two performances at the hallowed Midtown space. "Practice" is the cheeky answer that people give, but as Jay showed last night with his benefit for the United Way of New York City and the Shawn Carter Scholarship Foundation—Carnegie Hall's first concert where a hip-hop artist topped the bill—ambition is just as key.

Better than: Shoving people over to grab a seat on the L on a Saturday night.

Before Suckers took the Knitting Factory stage on Saturday, the audience segregated itself, seemingly by age. The youth enjoyed the opening acts, using the between-set breaks to sit on the floor; older concert-goers looked on from the back, bobbing their heads to the tunes and glancing around to see if anyone was watching them have a little fun. But when Suckers came on, old and young came together, screaming out the lyrics to the band's melancholic but uplifting sing-a-longs in unison.

Better than: A just-press-play-and-hide-behind-the-laptop DJ.

The 21-year old American-Chilean electronic producer Nicolas Jaar has ambition. In the past two years, he's released seven EPs and the full-length Space Is Only Noise; he runs his own label and tours with a rotating cast of collaborators, who bring elements of live performance to his robust yet minimal compositions. This weekend, Jaar wrapped up a weekend of shows, among them a sold-out night at Music Hall of Williamsburg, with a five-hour set at P.S. 1 titled From Scratch. Jaar's music is an intersection between left-field electronic and contemporary classical music, and he leaves plenty of space between the beats for his music to breathe. The quality of the sounds used by Jaar are equally important to the sounds he constructs as harmony and rhythm, with melody taking a back seat as a compositional element.

The Darkness
Irving Plaza
Saturday, February 4

Better than: Your ironic love of hair metal.

There's a sea of white people two-fisting 24 oz. Bud Lights the size of Pringles cans and dudes in collared shirts amusing each other with their cartoonish falsettos. Sure, glam rock may not be as popular as the tightened-up variety these days, but this sold-out crowd of suburban squares and aged mall girls couldn't care less. U.K. phenoms the Darkness, best known for their massive 2003 hit "I Believe in a Thing Called Love," have returned from their 2006 split, when singer-guitarist Justin Hawkins left the band after completing rehab. In March of last year, the original quartet announced a reunion that will hopefully help tickle modern rock's brittle, arthritic funny bone, because, cripes, you know shit is dismal when Coldplay, the Decemberists, and Mumford and Sons are Grammys nominees for Best Rock Performance. The Darkness must be aware of what we fun-starved whores are dealing with: The chug of Thin Lizzy's "The Boys Are Back in Town" signaled their impending arrival on Saturday night.

Lead man Hawkins, his guitarist brother Dan, bassist Frankie Poullain, and drummer Ed Graham hit the stage and promptly blazed through "Black Shuck." Hawkins wore a sleeveless Captain America/Evel Knievel mashup, special attire, presumably, for the U.S. dates of this tour. And thank heavens for his dedication, because if you happened to catch a glimpse of David Lee Roth's outfit at Van Halen's Cafe Wha? gig, you'd have noticed that Diamond Dave—the man that pranced out of the womb in a zebra unitard—was wearing camel-colored Carhart overalls. For the love of Lycra, Dave, do you work for Con Ed or one of the world's biggest rock bands? If Gene Simmons can still squeeze his doughy moneymaker into KISS gear, you, sir, can skip the fire sales at Sears and get your ass into something that doesn't have a hammer loop.

Better than: Listening to old K Records albums.

Thinking that Hospitality is a Scottish band, is an understandable mistake. The recent Merge signees are, in fact, from New York City, even if their smarty-pants pop has more in common with bands like Camera Obscura than many of their noisier hometown compatriots. The group crafts luscious songs that more often than not reference the members' friends, personal lives, work, and relationships. Amber Papini furthers the Anglo-Saxon suggestion with an idiosyncratic, lovely voice that contains just a hint of a British accent (she's from Kansas City, by the way). And the carefully put-together guitars, bass, drums, and sometimes horns and synths, practically beg to be listened to over a cup of PG Tips on a rainy day.