Ben Folds, Rufus Wainwright, Guster

The great shame of Wainwright’s otherwise stunning performance was that it fell prey to all the hazards of a large, outdoor venue. The buzzing audience couldn’t seem to pay attention; the enormous space in the Wolf Trap managed to handle the lush, baroque layers that characterize his album sound, but it also gobbled up the strains of his elegant solo piano. Wainwright’s musical style and personality are better suited to a more intimate setting, and it’s unfortunate that both his subtlety and virtuosity were so ill serviced by the oversized room.

As soon as Wainwright left the stage, it became evident which artist most of the audience was there to see. A small but adamant army (there’s no such thing as a lukewarm Guster fan), they were out in force at the Wolf Trap.

Me, I’m not a natural-born Guster lover. I was prepared to write them off as a boy band for college students who also like jambands (guitarist Adam Gardner could easily pass for heartthrob Nick Lachey). But after witnessing them live, it’s easy to see why they’re so universally adored. Darned if those Guster guys aren’t likeable, energetic fellows whose creativity and talent feed directly off the enthusiasm of the crowd.

The core of Guster—Gardner, Ryan Miller and Brian Rosenworcel—came together at Tufts University in the early ’90s with only the essentials: two guitars and some bongos. Over the years, their sound has evolved from three guys jamming in a dorm room into a five-piece wall of sound, making for a delightful paradox in their live performances. Guster may come across as a well-oiled, pop-rock machine these days (thanks largely to new member Joe Pisapia, a musical jack-of-all-trades who adds both depth and breadth to the repertoire), but it’s also retained its laid-back, self-deprecating hippie soul.

As a live unit, Guster had everything going for it—Rosenworcel’s hyperactive drumming, Miller and Gardner’s tight harmonies as they traded lead vocals, Pisapia’s multi-instrumental chops. What drove the show, though, was the mutual affection between musicians and audience, Guster’s huge, overarching exuberance working symbiotically with the crowd’s. The guys on the stage seemed just as thrilled as the audience on the floor during the opening notes of “Amsterdam,” Gardner mouthing lyrics like a giddy fanboy whenever he stepped away from the mic. A bouncy cover of Belle & Sebastian’s “Boy with the Arab Strap” had the place on its feet, clapping “for five minutes straight” as Miller instructed them.

Guster’s melodies still aren’t particularly complicated—nor the lyrics more than serviceably clever—but clearly, that’s not why people get into them. Most bands give their listeners lip service, but you can tell Guster really, really likes the people who come to its shows, right down to the good natured ribbing fans receive on its website. Sure, sometimes I wanted to say to the girl next to me, “Honey? If you cheer the whole time, you can’t actually hear the sweet harmonies during the breakdown.” But I probably would’ve just killed her buzz, and nobody likes a curmudgeon. It’s easy to be a cynic among Guster fans—but it’s just not as much fun as giving in to the sing-alongs.

When I’m honest, though, I have no room to get snarky about Guster fans. After all, the way they love Guster—shamelessly, zealously, jubilantly—is the exact same way I love the next artist who takes the stage. If there’s one man for whom I will swallow my journalistic pride and pump my fist in the air with abandon, it’s Ben Folds.

Like Wainwright, Folds made pop music safe for the piano again, its popularity having taken a hit during the grunge era. But Folds’ approach to the keyboard, his entire posture before it, was so opposite Wainwright’s that they might as well have been playing two different instruments. As could be expected from a guy with a punk background and more than a little energy to burn, Folds crouched before the piano as if about to pounce. He attacked, he pounded, he pummeled—a kamikaze Jerry Lee Lewis in Buddy Holly glasses hitting gloriously atonal chords.