It would seem the only time I’m craving to hear a song is when it’s completely inaccessible. Like when I’ve inconveniently placed my iPod into my checked luggage. And although I was to the point of willing to scale the outside of the plane midflight to retrieve it the staff would not have it, so I sat, being serenaded by the sirens of children’s wails. All I wanted was a little Ava Luna. Ava Luna, which I was so blessed to catch at their sold out and capacity-reached Shea Stadium show, sounds like what I would imagine if a band of gypsies went to school for a refined sense in indie rock and melded it with the blues. While delivering riffs of the smoothest drums and synchronized backup vocals they still had that textured sound that is so synonymous with the New York scene, probably heavily influenced by the sub-par sound systems, I’m not complaining. Like I said, Ava Luna, check it. It lays the perfect soundtrack for a scandalous night. (email Coquettewaves@gmail.com for a half-remembered tale of the best drummer/kisser of the evening)

O