Atlas Sound—you know, that Bradford Cox guy—is used to being straight-up lauded. From Deerhunter to his lively online presence to this, his current solo incarnation, dude gets love like Barack’s first four months in office. And yet, despite his legitimately beguiling work as Atlas Sound—great, sweeping moments of electronic hiss and swoon, fuzzy blankets of acoustic guitar pulled tightly over sleeping heads, and whatever else he wants to transmit from the latest fertile place his mind has travelled—doesn’t it seem like part of his allure is that, at any moment, the whole bit might suddenly explode, derail, or otherwise burn up like an onstage electrical fire? Maybe that’s what true artistry is nowadays. Still, don’t sit too close to the projector. That thing gets hot. With the Memory Tapes.
Wed., Feb. 3, 8 p.m., 2010