The Rolling Stones’ Sticky Fingers is inarguably one of the greatest albums of all time. Released between two other epic discs, Let It Bleed and Exile on Main St., this record found the Stones doing much of the recording at Muscle Shoals and had them working alongside supremely talented musicians like Ry Cooder, Jim Dickinson, Billy Preston and Pete Townshend. The album is nine amazing originals and one fantastic cover. And it clearly took a lot of people to make. Which is why jam-funk outfit Karl Denson’s Tiny Universe will play Sticky Fingers in its entirety with a group of friends, including bearded guitar virtuoso Anders Osborne (from New Orleans by way of Sweden). Watch them, above, playing “Sway,” and then for the love of God go see them next Wednesday at Webster Hall.

If this winter is going to be remembered as the winter that never was for New York City, we might as well celebrate the unusually mild weather with some music that reminds us of sunnier days. What better band to bring us to these warmer memories than the Smith Westerns? With a penchant for songwriting that draws heavily on the yearning for teenage love as inspiration, the Smith Westerns took the stage on Tuesday night at Webster Hall to showcase their sunny garage-pop melodies.

The Chicago-based band has had some considerable accomplishments in the two years since first playing Webster Hall, most notably with the release of the critically acclaimed sophomore album Dye It Blonde. Playing a set that featured songs mostly off this release, the band opened the show with a jubilant rendition of “All Die Young.” With frontman Cullen Omori belting out “Love is lovely when you are young,” the line felt somewhat like a mission statement for the show.

As young as this band is (the oldest member is only 21), it’s impressive to see how natural they appear and work together onstage. This was especially noticeable during “Imagine Pt. 3,” where guitarist Max Kakacek’s riffs unexpectedly burst through the melodic maelstrom of pop hooks. The crowd lost it for “Weekend,” a closing song that quite brilliantly highlights the heartbreak of unrequited love and shattered romantic expectations. So maybe young love ain’t so lovely after all. But the music it generates sure is, and you can enjoy that at any age. —Dan Rickershauser

Photos courtesy of JC McIlwaine | jcmcilwaine.com

Want to have a dance party on Saturday night, and want to do it for free? Then try to Grow a Pair of tickets from The House List to see Skrillex at Terminal 5. The show is sold out, so this is your last chance. Just fill out the form below, making sure to include your full name, e-mail address, which show you’re trying to win tickets to (Skrillex, 2/4) and a brief message explaining who will win the Super Bowl and why. Eddie Bruiser, who’s not a fan of Boston teams, will notify the winner by Friday. Good luck.

In between the opener and the headliner of Saturday night’s sold-out Bowery Ballroom show a woman asked us for the name of the first band. When I said, “Superhuman Happiness,” she responded, “They were really good!” I nodded in agreement: Indeed, they had just turned the room into a dance hall, blending Afrobeat with modern touches ranging from the Talking Heads to LCD Soundsystem. It was jamming horn-heavy groove music with claws, gratifying fans in the crowd and winning over plenty more.

Then the woman asked if we had ever seen Rubblebucket, the headliner. We replied that we hadn’t and she got a look in her eye. I know that look. I’ve given it to people plenty of times. It says, “You’re in for a treat and you don’t even know it.” Not many acts can put that kind of spark in someone’s eye. But later in the night—somewhere in between the crowd-surfing guest sousaphonist and the robot puppets (or puppet robots?) dancing through the arms-in-the-air crowd while the band stretched out a jam that had begun with a whiplash version of Blondie’s “Heart of Glass”—there was no question where that look had come from because I had the same one.

Rubblebucket picked up right where Superhuman Happiness had left off, taking the organic stuff of the tribal and the electronic and burying it underground until it liquefied into pure party petrol. The music was utterly post-genre—horns, synth, guitars, harmonies—a smile-inducing point on the tangent that connects Björk and Broken Social Scene. If those in the audience were enjoying themselves to the legal limit, the band members were right there with them, amid the crowd-surfing and the confetti cannons and returning for the encore ensconced in LEDs that seemed to blink in time with the drums. By the end of the show, which included material off last year’s Omega La La and even stronger first-time-played material, not a booty was left unshaken and not an eye was left untwinkling. —A. Stein

The first time I saw John Roderick was with his full band, the Long Winters, at a now-defunct East L.A. venue back in 2008. He was in rock-star mode with long hair and a loud maroon jacket, and he never took off his sunglasses. But on Saturday night, a mellower version, perhaps a more authentic Roderick, took the stage at Mercury Lounge with an acoustic guitar, plaid shirt and horn-rimmed glasses. It ended up being more of a group-therapy session than a rock concert. He seemed to accept and embrace this, one of the most self-aware and whip-smart musicians of his generation, positioned at the edge of being an indie-rock icon and a guy, like everyone else, getting older.

Roderick came onstage, tuned his guitar and asked for requests, later admitting he had half a mind to make the entire hour-plus set all requests, but this emerged as mildly problematic in the night’s second song. After playing “Hindsight,” Roderick took another suggestion, “The Sound of Coming Down,” a song from the Long Winters’ nearly decade old When I Pretend to Fall. After the first verse and chorus, a perfect and sublime Roderick hook (“Hey, you know nobody’s chasing us”), it was clear the singer struggled with the lyrics to the second verse. When an audience member shouted the first couplet, Roderick laughed and picked up the thread. He would apologize for the misstep, but it was a perfect reflection of the evening: audience members throwing requests, help, sarcastic barbs and Roderick responding in kind—a sort of yuppie ringleader for this circus collection of liberal arts degrees, facial hair and memorized indie-rock lyrics.

The audience wanted more than the 11 acoustic versions of Long Winters songs that Roderick played. “The Commander Thinks Aloud,” which Roderick informed us was “about a spaceship crash,” produced the type of silent reverence that brought all these quippy, culturally relevant fans to the same place. It was Roderick, alone, describing the last moments of the Space Shuttle Columbia. The final chilling lyric, “The crew compartment is breaking up,” describes the fatal perils of reentry. And the moment transcended any snappy comebacks as Roderick earnestly, and somewhat awkwardly, struggled to thank everyone for coming. —Geoff Nelson

“For some reason, most of my friends are comedians,” Aimee Mann told the audience halfway through her sold-out Music Hall of Williamsburg show on Friday night. Although the songwriter is best known for singing melancholy tales about the “dysfunctional, broken and crazy” (her exact words), she is also quite the comedienne, and for each dismal story in her songs, Mann counteracted the gloom with a wry anecdote, a pointed comment or some spontaneous banter with the crowd (see also: playing herself on Portlandia). Given her natural penchant for hilarity, she probably shouldn’t be too stumped at her circle of comical friends.

Before playing a block of songs from her soon-to-be released album (probably called Charmer, though she admitted to some last-minute reservations about the title), Mann, in saying, “I won’t be offended at all,” gave everyone permission to use the bathroom in case the new material wasn’t their thing. Of course the pieces were met with a warm welcome, and songs like “Labrador” fit in nicely with Mann’s repertoire of catchy tales of the downtrodden. Perhaps as a reward for our patience with the new material, Mann followed with a selection of songs from her popular soundtrack to Magnolia, prefacing her spot-on renditions of “Save Me,” “Wise Up” and “One” by dryly commenting, “It’s hard to believe it’s been so long … since I lost that fucking Oscar.”

During the night’s encore, after performing “4th of July,” from her very first solo album, 1993’s Whatever, Mann was joined by opening act John Roderick, another humorous musician (offering hugs for five dollars at the merch table after the show), for a cheery cover of Simon & Garfunkel’s “Keep the Customer Satisfied.” The choice of song may have been a final wink to the crowd, for Mann certainly knows how to put on a satisfying show, no jokes about it. —Alena Kastin
Photos courtesy of Mike Benigno | mikebenigno.wordpress.com

The band played in relative darkness, with a screen projecting shimmering gold dots providing the only light onstage. And, against the background, they looked like backlit shadows. The figures created sound, but their performance couldn’t be seen—all the better for Cass McCombs. The reportedly elusive singer-songwriter delivered his literal and personal lyrics with as much anonymity as possible.

Camera flashes provided brief glimpses of the frontman, but on the whole, his voice came from a silhouette. He sang about creatures and passwords written on sticky notes similar to Charlie delivering secrets to his angels. The audience listened attentively for instruction and information. And, for his part, McCombs was a purveyor of both.

During such upbeat numbers as the opener, “Love Thine Enemy,” McCombs tossed off aphorisms and advice. But the tone shifted mostly to midtempo country and folk. The comfortably laid-back sound, pervasive in the current indie-music scene, sounded effortless coming from McCombs and company. It is, after all, his signature. So when they finished with the 2011 lauded single “County Line” and left the stage, the lights immediately came back on. No needs to hide once you’ve left the stage. —Jared Levy