So I went to see the Animal Collective play again, this time in Nashville as opposed to Birmingham, which cut the drive in half.

But let me tell you something. I would have driven to Iceland to see these guys again. I’m typically a fairly cynical guy, but seeing these guys is almost a spiritual experience.

From the swirling maelstrom of psychedelic noise that they spool from tangled electronic equipment, to the fairly primitive-yet-awesome light show, these guys consistently amaze and (importantly) have a lot of fun whenever they play.

But enough editorializing in incipient paragraphs. Let us proceed to the meat of this story. I had to work Tuesday, as I do just about every weekday as a seventh grade teacher. In an effort to fight the anticipation, I took the kids to the library all day and pretty much turned things over to the librarian. And as the time passed, my anticipation only grew, and I agonizingly watched the creep of hands ’round the clock. Finally, 2:30 came, and I was free of my salaried servitude until 7:15 Thursday morning. Soon, I’d be seeing the best live band around.

We left Jackson at about 5:30, and as Nashville is about a 2 hour drive in optimal conditions, we had plenty of time to make the trip, which pal Kristin and I spent in a self-inflicted giggling haze.

We arrived at the Cannery just as the doors opened. There were a lot of forbidding looking motherfuckers in line, and basically nobody looked approachable. Everyone else looked, as my friend McCaskill put it, like it was their obligation to be there, and they hated it—and us, the unwelcome outta towners.

I started pounding beers. So did Kristin, which is hilarious, because she’s basically an elf. As one might expect, she also has the alcohol tolerance of a four-year-old, possibly younger. Anyway, as slight as her physical stature is, she is an adult, and therefore has the right to buy and pound as many beers as she wishes. I put my first three away in twelve minutes and lost all concern for anything but swaying, popping, and locking with the house music in anticipation of the frolic to come.

Another friend, Ian, had invited a girl named Raquel, who we were all much obliged to meet. I hope, for posterity’s sake, that I have spelled her name right. Apparently, I kept bumping my ass into her all night. It was hard to feel humiliated at the time, given that quite a few Indie kids were sweatily dancing all around us, but hindsight, besides being proverbially 20/20, is a helluva humiliator. Sorry, ma’am.

The opening band was called Tickley Feather, which brought to mind all manner of negative connotations, but they actually turned out to be good. A co-ed two piece, Tickley Feather managed a set of hypnotic minimalist electronica with a fairly severe hippie dippie vibe.

But then, the real show started. On this occasion, Animal Collective’s set-up consisted of several anatomy skeletons duded up like ballerinas, and a light show comprised of seizure-inducing LEDs. They performed again as a three piece (Deakin, where are ye?).

Soon, Avey, Panda, and Geologist began to do their thing, which was pretty much the musical equivalent of shouting “Fuck all you haters!”

The show was weighted towards newer Caribbean or African vibed unreleased material, which was awesome, somewhat strange, and wonderful. This was some incredibly happy, intensely psychedelic, inexorably danceable shit. Some of the released songs played include “Who Could Win a Rabbit,” “Peacebone,” “Unsolved Mysteries,” “Fireworks,” “Chores,” “We Tigers,” and a bunch of other shit I can’t remember.

By the end of it, they had played for damn near two hours, and I was saturated. I brought a little bit of the country to the big city, as McCaskill told me, by ripping my shirt off as soon as I got outside. When I began whipping members of my party with it, I was informed that my fate could soon resemble that of Mastodon’s Brent Hinds, who was pummeled for the same reason.

I didn’t care; I was euphoric. Merch-wise, I got a Reverend Green shirt, the Grass single, which contains one of my favorite rare tracks, “Fickle Cycle,” and a swell four video DVD.

Kristin was hammered and somewhat annoying to McCaskill, but after we ate at Waffle house, she and I both passed the fuck out. Good trip, peeps, good trip.