NYC's Baauer is down with the scene. Sporting ball cap, scruff, and a long-sleeved shirt, he might have just woken up. It's called trap music, but not the Three 6 Mafia kind. A nascent etymology consisting of short, sticky blasts of brain-dead dance music, its producers, usually young and optimistic, are far more concerned with the grooves than any semblance of craft. Sometimes such dippy ambivalence moves in substantial ways. Case in point: bubblegum breakout jam "Harlem Shake." A fuzzy synth burbles to the surface, and Baauer wiggles his skinny legs like it's the biggest tune in the world. The crowd at the Blue stage steadily increases, and suddenly there's a flock of newfound devotees entranced by a nondescript white dude who's heavy on enthusiasm. The laptop skates around through a who's who of what's hot and ignorant – Hudson Mohawke, Lunice, Flosstradamus – and though these names might not mean much to you, it made the early-afternoon sun feel like a disco ball. Without warning, the sound faded. Set-time had dwindled, but Baauer hardly noticed. He shrugged, smiled, applauded his audience, and disappeared.
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