The crowd for M.I.A. was the perhaps the sweatiest I’ve ever seen. Most days, thirty still feels pretty young, but not when M.I.A’s around: post-apocalyptic-Saved By the Bell-afro-disco flailing, retro-futuristic-pixelated-synchronized video projections, the real M.I.A. dancing aside five After Effects-enhanced versions of herself at 150% scale: the woman knows how to throw a party. She’s also adept at marketing: there was a palpable political charge at the show, but no concrete politics. We cheered for the revolution! We danced for the revolution! We went home and forgot to implement the revolution! But the show was a blast.

Jonathan Richman’s crowd swayed gently side-to-side as he managed to serenade a room of strangers. While M.I.A. hauled a drop-in extravaganza, Richman brought drummer Tommy Larkins, a guitar, and a performance as sweet as a bow-wrapped present. He sung new songs and classics like “Pablo Picasso” (Well some people try to pick up girls / And get called assholes / This never happened to Pablo Picasso). He’s a must-see, if you have the chance.

A Japanese male dance troupe donned American-Indian apparel and opened for James Murphy (a.k.a. L.C.D. Soundsystem); by the time he took the decks at a cordoned-off section of the large circular bar, a few dozen men sat sleeping over their whiskeys, inches away from the amplifiers. I knew the Japanese etiquette of drinking and sleeping differed from American custom, but on my first evening out in the country, I was surprised and delighted by the sight of night-club snoozing. Did he play any of the L.C.D.‑branded hits? I’m not sure: I danced but did not listen to Mr. Murphy’s D.J. set — a high compliment, I think.