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Do you want to master hand-claps? Do you want to dance ’til you’re not embarrassed? Do you want to watch an indie icon get down, low down, all the friggin’ way down-to-the-Supremes down? Do you want to sing along with him? Maybe even get a little red-faced by that prospect? Do you want to feel a Pacific Ocean of sound wash over you? The kind of roots music for us—nylon-string intros, boombastic drums, and loud feedback farts? Do you want to feel punk’s warts? The kind that make you remember we are all human? Do you want to hear pretty singing, deep singing, cool coo-coo-cachooing that only sounds truly good stoned? The kind that’s honest? The kind that has nothing to do with college rock? The kind you can believe in forever? Do you want to understand how simple and great music can be when it’s just simple and great? The kind of stuff that makes you go right home and try on your own Gibson guitar? The kind of stuff you will never master because what they did there that night on that small stage was fucking art? And it was fun, too. And they called it The Moon Is Up There. It’s basically performance art, and it stars K Records head Calvin Johnson, the night’s camp counselor, and features audiophiles the Microphones (pictured), Get the Hell Out of the Way of the Volcano, Little Wings, an unplugged Dead Meadow, and a couple Rondelles. Don’t just stand there; get to the last gift of the summer at 9 p.m. Saturday, Aug. 25, at Signal 66, 926 N St. NW. $6 (suggested donation). (202) 842-3436. (Jason Cherkis)