1. Zachary Cole Smith I just don’t get. The DIIV frontman is at once shy and enthusiastic. One moment, he’s introducing songs with mumbled run-on sentences (“This one is called ‘Under the Sun’ thank you”); in the next, he’s having direct, charming conversations with the audience. Late in the band’s set, when someone shouted out a request for “20 more songs,” Smith gave a kind, soft-spoken response: “If I had 20 more songs, I would. Appreciate the sentiment, though. … Can we start the song now, so I can shut up?” (First runner-up in the shy-rock-star sweepstakes: guitarist Andrew Bailey, who played most of the set with a white cloth draped over his eyes.)

2. Walking in, I knew very little of DIIV’s music—maybe two songs, and I didn’t know their titles. Yet their sound is so immediately familiar to me—chugging, atmospheric post-punk reminiscent of My Bloody Valentine and early New Order, with guitar leads that seem like they’re being played backwards—that I was able to skip the learning curve and enjoy the tunes. My personal favorites were the soaring, surf-inspired “Under the Sun,” the slow-burning headbanger “Mire (Grant’s Song)” and the lovely “Human,” though there really wasn’t a bad one in the bunch. Everything from “Dopamine” to “Incarnate Devil” popped and scalded as if DIIV had invented this sound.

3. DIIV didn’t seem to have a setlist. Smith asked for requests more than once: “You guys wanna hear a fast song or a slow song?” “Cheeseburger” was a crowd request; also “Loose Ends.” The only request they turned down was “Valentine,” and not out of a disenchantment with the song: “We don’t know how to play ‘Valentine’, sorry,” Smith said. “It’s built around a sample.”

4. Someone in the band won $6.14 gambling while the band checked into its hotel. (“Which hotel? The Ritz-Carlton, of course,” Smith joked, which reminded him of something: “Is the girl who checked us in here tonight? We put her on the list.”)

5. The Bunkhouse was full, but not uncomfortably so, and check this out: I saw my first pit spring up there. It was a friendly and mellow pit, mostly pogoing and intentioned leaning, which is what you do when the band you like is playing music you can’t properly mosh to. About six songs into the band’s set, the pit occupied nearly a quarter of the floor, and it stayed frisky right through the end of the show—a hat trick of “Doused,” “Waste of Breath” and “Wait.” As the final notes died away Smith grinned big and uttered a run-on sentence ending in “thank you,” and we all went home happy.