JAMES BLAKE, TEENGIRL FANTASY
I'll admit to having never heard James Blake's album CMYK in its entirety. I'll also admit to having missed him—twice!—at SXSW. At the moment, I'm tapping out this column on a virus-besotted laptop that refuses to connect to the internet, so there's not much hope of giving myself a last-minute crash course in Blake's lauded, minimalist Auto-Tune–meets-dubstep compositions. I'm like Samuel L. Jackson in The Caveman's Valentine—a movie I haven't seen but think I know the gist of—living in a pretechnological cavern, forced to imagine what Blake's futurist warbles really sound like. Last time the young prodigy was in town, it was 21 and over, so don't sleep on this. Also: Teengirl Fantasy fucking RULE. Showbox at the Market, 8 pm, $22.50.