Part One: Most of us bloggers called it quits after Saturday night, but one, Nilina Mason-Campbell, soldiered on.

8:50 pm: We’re on our way to the Crystal Ballroom to see Swim Swam Swum when I find out Britney Spears’ VMA performance went down a disaster. This gives the night a downtrodden accent.

9:23 pm: The guy working the door at the Crystal Ballroom is singing “Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer” to those entering and exiting.

10:36 pm: A massive spontaneous clapping spree has broken out during Holy Fuck. I started their set out in the all-ages section and everyone around me was losing their mind to them. I love that Wolf Parade’s Hadji is part of openers Holy Fuck, and last time Wolf Parade strutted through town, their openers along with Frog Eyes, was Swan lake, featuring Wolf Parade’s Spencer Krug.

10:59 pm: After setting up their own instruments and equipment, Wolf Parade are gathered together side of the stage ready to make their entrance. In their hands are hand-written set lists—hand-written on small scraps of wrinkled paper as opposed to a banana like the last time they played the Crystal. As soon as they make it onstage they announce their set will mostly be new songs. Wolf Parade are one of the only bands that can perform a set of almost entirely new songs and have everyone in the audience freaking out with the same energy they would be if the band was playing their absolute favorite song they already knew. A barrier falls down. They note from the stage that every time they play Portland, there’s a circle pit.

12:15 am: We leave to the sound of “You Are a Runner and I Am My Father’s Son.” A lack of sleep and the fact that Frog Eyes won’t be there to join them onstage for their encore like last time drive the decision to leave early, but not before noticing their skeletal sound engineer who previously toured with Islands last time they came through at Disjecta.

12:48 am: I can only make it through the first 27 seconds of Britney’s performance on youtube. It’s just too painful.

Part Two: WW Film Editor Aaron Mesh shares his MFNW Saturday night.

8:54 pm, Ash Street Saloon: Having arrived a few minutes early for the Drunken Prayer show, I make my way to the bar, where my Nike-branded “We Sold Our Soles for Rock n’ Roll” shirt (hey, it was clean) catches the eye of a goateed patron. He points to his own apparel: a tee reading “I came for the lobster, but all I got was the crabs.” He recognizes a kindred spirit. “There’s nothing better than a funny t-shirt,” he enthuses. I nod weakly, and he continues: “Tonight I almost broke out one that says ‘Will Fuck for Beer.’ But the last time I wore it, I got hit on by a dude. Maybe I need one that says ‘Will Eat Pussy for Beer.’” I agree that this might do the trick.

10:05 pm, Tube: The crowd of 30 people circling The Morals is enthusiastic, if not respectful. “Show us your cock!” a man yells after the first song. “I wonder who said that?” chuckles Casey Moral, but midway through the set, he’s surrendered to the spirit of the room. “You want me to drop my pants?,” he asks. “Cause I’ll drop my pants.” He confines himself to removing his belt.

11:10 pm, Roseland Theater: The energy within the mass on the floor here, especially when seen from above, is anarchic, almost frightening. The throng is less a sea than a riptide; it yanks Girl Talk mashmaster Gregg Gillis under its surface as soon as he begins his set and doesn’t let him go for an hour. Crowd-surfers play along the crests, while the only signs of Gillis are his beats and the occasional, brief freestyle coming from the ocean floor. Gillis is finally spat into the arms of Roseland security, who have to help him backstage. He’s missing his shirt.

Part Three: Ethan Smith shares his Saturday night moments:

2:05 am, outside Berbati’s Pan. After a never-ending encore from Okkervil River, I’m playing chauffeur for MFNW czar Trevor Solomon. En route to the MFNW VIP after party at AudioCinema, we pick up Bobby Bare Jr. and Adrian, a charmingly wasted girl in leopard print pants. Halfway there, I notice Adrian has pulled a plastic cup of bourbon from her purse. It’s illegal, but I understand. Sure, the open container is an automatic for me, but this car ride to the next booze-soaked event is going take several minutes.

11 pm, Roseland Theater. How does a guy with a laptop rock the house? Like this: The Lifesavas just thoroughly riled up the natives, and entering stage right is mash-up master Girl Talk aka Gregg Gillis, who looks a bit like Jesus except instead of sandals, he’s rocking sick gray and lime green Jordan V’s. he shuns the stage—which is crowded with the Clipse’ expensive gear, likely paid for in powdery, tightly rolled bills—and plants his Mac on a table in the narrow aisle between the stage and a row of metal blockades restraining the crowd. “How the fuck is Portland doing?” he shouts into the mic, then taps a couple keys and the room explodes into a sea of thrashing teenage limbs. He starts pulling kids over the barrier and in moments the seething dance party has converged on him. Which is awesome for the vibe, but puts him in imminent danger of being grinded to death under the feet of sweaty white kids. At the end of the set, he emerges, soaking and shirtless, having only survived thanks to a human cordon of burly security guards, hugs MFNW director Trevor Solomon and says, “Top five show. Ever.”

12:15 pm, Roseland Theater. Somehow the same kids that went wild for the Girl Talk’s bouncy audio collages and goofy antics is rapping along with Clipse lyrics. Several thousand hipsters chant the chorus of “Keys Open Doors” and at least some of them seem to know it’s about coke dealing. More proof music is the universal language. Or that most middle class white kids wish they were black. Either way, Clipse is the shit.

And finally, Part Four: Links to outside coverage of MFNW.

Just how crazy was Girl Talk? Dave Allen has video at Pampelmoose.com.

Pitchfork did a thing, which includes pics from LocalCut’s newest addition, Nilina Mason-Campbell.

Punknews has an awesome Lifetime review with pictures.

Seattlest visits Casey’s LocalCut showcase.

Holy Fuck photo courtesy of Nilina Mason-Campbell