And what a band it was! A veritable Who’s Who of the friends of Devendra: what with Senor Banhart being designated the lead hobnobber of the indie folk/freak folk/whatever, the guy’s got connections, and many of them were there, onstage, not so much an accompanying band as extensions of Banhart himself. Andy Cabic (leader of the absolutely sublime Vetiver, whose To Find Me Gone is pure perfection) was there. Gregory Rogove (Tarantula AD/Priestbird) brought an intuitive language of percussion to the evening. Noah Georgeson - who opened the show with a gorgeous, intimate set highlighted by a mesmerizing version of the old standard “Nature Boy,” covered by everybody from Nat King Cole to Big Star to John Leguizamo in Moulin Rouge - provided lovely guitar and vocal embellishments, which were particularly effective foils to Banhart’s more unbridled stylings. Spiritual Boner, Monsterpuss, whatever they call themselves - they were nothing short of magnificent. It takes a special ensemble to be able to launch into a Santana-rific take on Stevie Nicks’ “Edge of Seventeen” - brief as it was - and pull if off convincingly, and yet that is exactly what they did. Hell, I don’t get that everyday.

For those in the audience who were itchin’ for the familiar, Banhart and Spiritual Puss or Monsterboner playfully taunted, “If anyone wants to hear an old song, just yell it out.”

Pause. A jumble of shouts from the audience, including numerous pleas for “Chinese Children.”

Pause.

“And we won’t play it, anyway,” Banhart joked, holding only partially true to his threat. A gleefully endearing rendition of Nino Rojo’s “Little Yellow Spider” - a wobbly-legged nursery rhyme in which he rounds up more animals than that Bible superhero Noah himself - made an appearance, stirring up a wave of bobbing seats throughout the hall as the entire crowd rocked back and forth in can’t-keep-it-in excitement. So, so comfy, those seats! Great for sitting-down dancing. I don’t think I was the only one revving up for the choicest line of the song, complete with punchline ending: “Well I came across a dancing crab, and I stopped to watch it shake / I said, ‘Dance for me just one more time before you hibernate / and come out a crab-cake’” Fantastic. Another masterpiece-in-miniature from the same LP, “At the Hop,” was given such an intimate, tender treatment that the concert hall miraculously shrunk down to the size of a front porch. Wizardry, I say, wizardry!

As I said, the Smokey selections played during the evening appear to indicate a move into a more rocking direction for the new folk icon. Fairly early on in the set, an electrifying take on the previously MySpaced shapeshifter “Seahorses” - an acid folk/jazz/stoner- rock monster jam that threatened to engulf the group by the end - provided the definitive moment of release for the crowd, sending most folks out of their seats and into full body expression. By the end, it’s a wild, dangerous beast, rather than one of Banhart’s familiar cutesy creatures. Somewhere along the way, Dave Brubeck got eaten, along with Love and Jim Morrison and maybe even a member or two of Hawkwind, metaphorically speaking, of course. It worked, gloriously. The temperature of the room rose. Coats came off. Limbs were shaken loose. A new crowd fave - right out of the gates.

The other highlight of the new material? “Bad Girl,” a gender-bending slow-burner that reminded me of one of my absolute favorite things on earth, Galaxie 500. Rolling tom rhythms, lonesome sighing guitars, nasal-falsetto cries of “waa, waa, waa” burst forth in the chorus. I closed my eyes for a moment and swore I saw a 20 years-younger Dean Wareham, in a club somewhere in Boston. Doubt me? As of this writing, the song is featured on Banhart’s MySpace. Go on, click away. Prepare to be awed.

The show ended - not counting the obligatory encores, of course - with a romping version of Cripple Crow’s “I Feel Just Like a Child.” On record, it’s a rhythm-happy bouncer of a song that never ceases to bring me back a couple of decades, back to when I was just a little scrapper who’d jump up and down like my knees were going to last forever. Live, it was electrifying: the simple rolling beat gave way to intriguing polyrhythms, the kind that could go on forever with nary a complaint in the entire room. Fifty, 60, 70 men and women leapt up to the stage - only they were no longer grown-ups with troubled knees. They were boys and girls, bouncing, twirling, jumping, laughing. Yeah, some of ‘em were young whippersnappers, but plenty weren’t. They danced around the band, danced with the band, hugged each other, hugged Banhart. They were beaming…I was beaming. Call me a sap, but it was actually quite affecting. Genuine, spontaneous moments such as these are few and far between. I suggest grabbing them with both arms.