Being a rabid fan of Kid Dakota - and having never seen the band live before - my stratospheric anticipation for this show was understandable, never mind that Low is excellent in concert too. But before the righteousness began, the audience was subjected to perhaps the worst "entertainment" ever to soil the Bluebird's stage (which is saying something, considering the place used to a be a hardcore porn theater).

The generic name of this Colorado Springs outfit escapes me, but they sounded like the unholy offspring of a James Dobson/700 Club house band and every masturbatory guitarist on smooth jazz radio, with a bit of histrionic, Creed-esque vocals thrown in for no reason. Like a Christian band composed of mildly-retarded Alice in Chains wannabes (the kind that stop drooling on their crotches just long enough to beat you up) these guys plowed through seven or eight songs of faceless yet hideous aural pap. My friend Margie may have put it best: "I can't even listen to the music because I'm distracted by how much I hate the vocals." Except for a couple drunken chaps behind us, much of the audience seemed as horrified as we were.

A stray dog coughing into the microphone would have seemed revelatory compared with the openers, but fortunately, they were followed by a genuinely redeeming group. Minnesota's Kid Dakota is mainly singer/guitarist Darren Jackson (Olympic Hopefuls) and drummer Christopher McGuire (Quruli, John Vanderslice), but for a few songs they were joined by a bassist and backing guitarist. Playing a set that was half new songs and half songs from his last couple discs (The West Is the Future and So Pretty), Jackson performed spotlessly, channeling all his aggression into a few well-chosen chords and poison-tipped lyrics. His tightly-wound voice and succinct guitar playing (the harmonic string rakes sounded sweet on his Les Paul) complimented McGuire's unerringly propulsive, oddly attractive drumming style. Hunched over a spare jazz set, McGuire seemed almost disinterested (or drunk?) in his surroundings, even as his arms and hands worked in perfect tandem with Jackson's playing. Weird, and very cool. Jackson's new songs were just as good as the old ones: Moody, full of nimble melodic feats and jagged chords, and patient beyond words. After the all-too-brief set, my friends and I noticed the open-jawed looks on each others' faces and wordlessly nodded. FUCK. YES.

The show could have ended there and I would have been ecstatic. Lucky for us, Low was just getting started. Playing a mix of songs from their last three discs, but leaning heavily on their current Sub Pop release, The Great Destroyer, the band was as calm as Kid Dakota was seething. Mimi Parker's otherworldly harmonies with husband/guitarist/lead singer Alan Sparhawk defy description. Suffice to say, the clarity and timbre of her pipes are unmatched in underground music. Something about the intertwining of Sparhawk's sandpapery delivery and Parker's angelic vibrato sent continuous chills down my spine. Bassist Zak Sally (a frequent Kid Dakota contributor) kept metronomic time, watching Sparhawk's every strum with intent concentration.

This was easily the best show I've seen this year, and that's saying something considering how much I wanted the opening band to perish in a hail of bullets. A night of extremes? You betcha. Let's just hope it doesn't take Kid Dakota another three years to revisit the Mile High City.

-John Wenzel