Who feels right rough today? CMJ blistered, deafened, and ran me over, but it was my own fault. I asked for it. What bands made it worth it?

French Horn Rebellion: color me surprised that an actual French horn was played during these disco kids’ set. Given that irony can camouflage all sorts of bad taste, FHR are unabashedly reviving 70s dancefloor. Against your better judgement, you will be seduced by their whispered plea: “Baby, we just want you to dance… will you dance with us?” And wow, if you don’t find yourself vibrating with bass in the middle of the dancefloor, you are made of iron. Heavy with synthy, fat beats, FHR is silly, yes, but highly addictive.

Wild Nothing: caught them twice, hard not to, since they, along with Oberhofer and Surfer Blood, seemed to be everywhere at once. Good on them, since their hazy, upbeat, 80s-revival pop grew on me the second time round at the Bowery Ballroom Saturday night. Part surf anthems, part John Hughes prom scene score, Wild Nothing’s songs are wistful little gems and conceal a serious soul beneath surface delicacy. Tunes for daydreamers.

Jamaica: This French trio threw down some serious pop-punk at Fader Fort while I wet my already sopping whistle with a gratis vodka Vitaminwater (hangover cure plus intoxicant? Cancel each other out, right? Seemed like a good idea at the time!). Sexy and tight, maybe a little obvious in its appeal, Jamaica’s sound will dance your pants off.

DOM: always a pleasure, these boys. Came in, quick n dirty, and squawked out a blazing, riff-filled set. DOM’s frontman is just dirty sass, plain and simple. You want it loud with the amp knob ripped off? These are your guys. Like a sticky red lollipop that’s had a roll in the dirt – there’s something skuzzy, yet very sweet about them.

Kingsley Flood: need a little palate cleanser from all the synthy, overly-sampled rape gaze out there? Try on Boston-based Kingsley Flood who trade in swinging Americana. Their high-riding fiddling, trumpeting, and jangly guitars can really dust up a storm. So much of nouveau country can come off as too earnest by half, but Kingsley Flood get you to stomp with a wink.

Lia Ices: Ices has an impressive voice that lodges somewhere between Tori Amos and Bat for Lashes. Lady singers should know we’ve all seen enough bat-wing dresses to last a life time – no need to sartorially signal your ethereal weirdness. I enjoyed her set for its bluesy undertow, though the similarity of the songs’ quiet opening segue to booming crescendo structure wearied me. When a heckler in the audience yelled, “What’s your name? And where are you from?” Ices replied, “I’m Lia Ices and I’m from the future.” That’s how you signal your ethereal weirdness.

Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr.: But maybe it really is all about the outfits. These guys show up in Nascar onesies proudly displaying sponsor names (“Cheerios, Lysol, Goodyear”) and sing sweet, dare I say, earnest songs about love. They trade vocals over swirling electrobeats and guitar and it’s absolutely charming. I guess bands now can’t just show up and play, they must have a gimmick. Lose it, dudes.

Surfer Blood: though still so baby-faced, these kids sure can rock. Headliners last night at the Bowery Ballroom, they inspired moshing from a crowd exhausted from 5 days of free booze and city-stomping. Seriously pro now, there was Drums-level stage prancing from lead man John Paul Pitts. Just please, guys, don’t turn too Weezer on us?

Lower Dens: spooky and grand, this foursome walk the line between drone and delicacy. Their live set sounds far more bombastic than on record, which can come as a bit of a shock. Lower Dens offer an immersive experience, not built around easy-to-swallow pop arrangements. The loose, slightly meandering guitars wash over you, as the rhythm pulses you along – grower rather than shower.

Now lock me in rehab. Just please let me have my iPod – I’ve got some new band love to dwell in.