The Knitting Factory juggled a veritable Whitman’s Sampler of musical genres and their respective fans last week, as ivy-capped skankers and shaggy-haired slackers jockeyed for stalls in the men’s room. Despite the crowding, their “all-ages” admission policy guaranteed me an unobstructed trip to the bar as needed.

Upon arrival, the Knitting Factory’s main room had all the energy of a mortuary. This level was maintained throughout opener Mia Doi Todd’s solo acoustic set, which in retrospect would have been better suited to the adjacent Alterknit Lounge. To call this young woman “reserved” would be a severe understatement. Her handful-of-notes fingerpicking minimalism was as restrained as her floor-length skirt. Fans of Joni Mitchell’s hushed folk or Sarah McLachlan’s melancholy ballads might appreciate Ms. Todd’s lullabies, which occasionally attained a whispery peak yet unfortunately never dipped into a soulful valley.

During Mia’s set, I kept noticing a Jason Schwartzmanesque hipster in an all-red terrycloth tracksuit, a la Ben Stiller in The Royal Tenenbaums. This same chap later presented himself as chief knob-twister in the next act: Future Pigeon. Anxiety set in when the stage exceeded five people; panic followed when I realized none were sound techs and all were band members -- I feared another Quazar and The Bamboozled debacle. This fear subsided when each performer proved useful, including hotsteppin’ bass, a two-piece brass section and a shaker of assorted, mostly third-world instruments: gourd, maraca, sleighbell and tambourine, the latter of which is usually reserved for a hot chick with no talent (Stevie Nicks excepted). Future Pigeon’s thick and low-pro reggae dub groove will appeal to fans of later-year Sublime or Tricky. In addition to real-time sampling and echo management, the aforementioned tracksuiter played what I’ll call an electro-hookah; his Frampton-style puffs into a white plastic vacuum cleaner hose somehow became digitally processed afterward. Or was that a sports bottle?

I first heard Helio Sequence on an obscure "college" radio station while driving back from San Diego earlier this summer -- it was one of those rare times when I actually tolerated the DJ’s trite banter simply to hear the band’s name. Had it not been for this San Diego radio station – we all know L.A. is a cultural graveyard in that medium – I would’ve never known the majesty of Helio Sequence. This type of potential ignorance pisses me off more in retrospect -- this band was about 10 minutes away from being yet another 3" B&W ad in LA Weekly. Helio Sequence is literally two guys and a laptop, the guys being vocalist/guitarist Brandon Summers and drummer Benjamin Weikel (yes, the same Ben from Modest Mouse), who also handles keyboards. The front-and-center placement of Ben’s drum kit screamed boldness, and Brandon’s Orange amp sitting a few feet away reassured me that I wasn’t about to hear an hour of soulless, looped electronica. To hear these instruments played was truly an unforgettable experience. To me, seeing Helio Sequence live is the auditory equivalent of hearing a crushing verdict against big tobacco being read aloud in a federal courtroom, or perhaps an aging single mother applauding her robed and masonboarded firstborn at her college graduation. Ben’s drums are more than just for keeping time, with them he’s able to convey artistry and creativity as well as Rush, The Police or Hum. Put simply, Ben played his damn heart out -- I haven’t seen that kind of passion-via-percussion since Ferdinand from 400 Blows or John Stanier from Helmet. Comparisons abound – Ride, Radiohead, even My Bloody Valentine or Medicine, sans their female leads. The list goes on, but the point is the same -- their highly-perfected wall-of-sound is strategically interspersed with reflective moments. Like Pink Floyd, Creeper Lagoon or Gish-era Smashing Pumpkins, Helio Sequence proves that positive and – dare I say -- upbeat music doesn’t have to be “light” to inspire – and thus all hope is not yet lost.