The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

There's a certain tension in the Triple Rock. We're all sucking on secret mouthfuls of electricity, our synapses sputtering and sparking as we attempt to reckon with this music. It is a constant interplay of dissonance and beauty pulling at us and prickling our skin.

Emily Dantuma's operatic vocals curl like lurid smoke, escaping to the ceiling and hanging in a haunted fog. It is broken only by rabid, linear breakdowns administered by Company Inc.'s guitarist, Kenny Guenther. The St. Paul four-piece has the feel of Cleveland post punk icons, Pere Ubu, with its visceral panic and insanity squealing in the hollows between notes, the shock of time changes and its utter rawness. But Dantuma's baroque howling adds poignant luxury. The keyboards are also fitting in their simplicity, existing in stark contrast to the angular force of the guitar and bass. This is best shown in "No Time," as the keys add the backbone to Dantuma and Ollie Dodge's exchange of words. In the end, Company Inc. leaves the sparse crowd in a sunken-eyed daze after their whirlwind confusion and jaggedy elegance.

Next is Seattle's Dead Science. The trio somehow makes their 1940s vagabond look affect high-class dandyism. Singer and guitarist Sam Mickens is wearing a blood red shirt and heeled black boots, seductively leaning into his mic. It is as easy to imagine he is thrilling a speakeasy audience as entertaining these bony locals. Musically, Dead Science also touts old-world allure. Micken's soulful, out-of-control vibrato feels rare and steeped in melodrama. His vocals would be a fitting backtrack to mild violence or a tour through Nosferatu's lair. But, physically, he remains stagnant. He poses, lips quivering as if he is breathing life into funeral lilies, and shoots cold stares to the back of the room.

Jherek Bischoff's chainsaw-like approach to playing his stand-up bass adds a thick layer of tumult to this strange romance. Meanwhile, Nick Tamburro's spastic, heavy-handed drumming pushes Micken's staccato riffing toward unstitched chaos. Combined, the trio races through its complex song structures, enjoying abrupt stops and starts and unforeseen conclusions. The band is touring in promotion of its new album, Villainaire. It's a worthy purchase, managing to capture the band's hot and heavy live sound while showcasing even more stylistic flair.

High Places' poppy daydreams come as a pleasant change of pace. The Brooklyn duo takes post behind a tangle of craggy wires and a small armada of pedals. Hunched over their table of technologic surprises, High Places perform with a near-surgical methodology. To recreate their intricate organic pop, they must constantly fiddle, turning knobs, whacking drum pads. Singer Mary Pearson even wears a bracelet of bells, which she teams with egg shakers and rain sticks. Every motion makes music. The inherent concentration High Places must employ to produce their sound creates a distance between them and their audience. But the duo merely tolerates the idea of performance. They have a demure presence, as if wishing to turn the spotlight away. High Places is more interested in the result of their performance, the sunlit pop and lush soundscapes that have become the band's trademark.

Pearson and cohort Rob Barber's shadows play upon a screen flickering with nature scenes. The images are appropriate, as there is a definite earthiness to their music. Tribal drums are a staple, layered with calypso beats, strange whistling and any tones that clang with brilliance and affection. Pearson's listless alto only adds to this beach-bum surrealism. Ever upbeat, the songs have a child-like playfulness, as if Pearson and Barber try to see how many sounds they can swirl together before they make too much of a mess. Each part on its own, however, is perfect in its simplicity. In "Head Spins," for example, Pearson sings, "When we sat on the floor/ I was floored/ I was floored" accompanied by two guitar lines, hand percussion, drums and a layer of metallic buzzing. As each segment repeats, the music swells and the walls shake. Pearson and Barber shrink away, disappearing under the weight of it, until only the music is left.