Siren Music Festival – the Village Voice’s grueling day-long concert at Coney Island, now in its sixth year – is aptly named. Crowds are lured in by the siren song of a schedule crowded with indie up-and-comers, only to have their expectations dashed on the rocks of middling acts and terrible acoustics. Even the most intrepid rock journalist wearies of running the gauntlet of carnival barkers and sticky-fingered, sugar-high kids that separate the two Coney Island stages. This year’s event was no exception.

One of Saturday’s best sets was played at 1 p.m., well before most fans had arrived. Deadboy & the Elephantmen (which includes one alluring Elephantwoman in drummer Tessie Brunet) plays fuzzy, blues-inflected rock ‘n’ roll that falls somewhere between that of Fat Possum label mates Grandpaboy (Paul Westerberg’s alter ego) and the Black Keys. The band’s promotional team swung foam executioner’s axes in time to the insistent downbeat-chords, while singer Dax Riggs performed scummy-sexy vocals that somehow reminded me of the original INXS frontman, Michael Hutchence. Despite his youth, Deadboy affected a credible world weariness with lines like: “I feel like an ancient man / I got hell in my hand.”

Celebration’s usually jagged electro-polyrhythms were dulled by the Coney Island din, but singer Katrina Ford’s indomitable enthusiasm wasn’t. She stomped and strutted the stage in a hippy-gypsy dress, leaning back to belt out hearty, face-reddening vocals. Unfortunately, she was dissuaded from her usual crowd-leaping antics by the 20-foot moat occupied by press and photographers.

The murky sound system played to the modest strengths of Serena Maneesh, a Norwegian band specializing in My Bloody Valentine-style guitar whitewash. Their set began with a meditative, monk-like choir, but soon evolved into guitar swells that at times approached freak-wave proportions. Fans loved it, but families returning from the beach clutched their ears and ran for the subway as if fleeing a real tidal wave.

Man Man’s artful mess provoked a similar response from concertgoers and bystanders alike. In white face paint, upturned Polo collars, and headbands, they looked like kids playing tennis pros v. Indians. Likewise, they sounded like kids playing instruments they’d never picked up before. But at least they know the limits of their appeal: Lead noisemaker Honus Hones is quoted in the festival program as saying, “None of us are quitting our day jobs anytime soon. Trust me.”

She Wants Revenge appears to be succeeding despite its limits. Thousands of pale-faced, black-clad fans turned out for their Joy Division-worshipping set. But the only novelty to seeing this California band was hearing Ian Curtis’s flat, Mancunian accent coming from the mouth of lead singer Justin Warfield, a strapping mulatto man.

In a schedule of bands with only one arrow in their quivers, the Stills were a relief – they had two. The band still performs songs with the moody shimmering guitar and soaring vocals that characterized their 2003 debut, but they’ve recently delved into the more varied terrain of 1970’s folk rock adding organs, handclaps, and vocal harmonies to the mix.

The Cribs offered just what we’ve come to expect from buzzed-about British imports: tight, catchy, punky songs delivered with wild eyes and cocksure sass. This trio from Wakefield, England just happens to do it better than expected. Their antics introduced a sense of genuine danger to poppy, tuneful songs that sometimes found them “ooh oohing” and “bah bah bahing” like a 1950’s band. The drummer stood on his kit while holding down the beat, like a motocross rider performing an aerial trick. Blood poured from the mouth of one of the singers as he forcefully grated his lower lip against the wire mesh of the microphone. Sid Vicious would have been pleased, but so would Bill Haley.

Antics alone saved headliner Scissor Sisters. From where I stood (in the aforementioned moat) only bass was audible. Still, the group’s theatrical disco-flamboyance and Elton John-inspired fashions – Jake Shears wore white pants and a sequined French sailor shirt, Ana Matronic was mermarvelous in an iridescent aquamarine dress – carried off the show.They seemed to have learned a secret from year’s past: Siren Fest is still a place to be seen, if not heard.

***

Andy Cabic is freak folk’s straight man. He is Devendra Banhart’s closest collaborator (and partner in the Gnomonsong label), and benefits flow both ways. Cabic brings his sturdy constructions and easy guitar melodies to Banhart’s music; Banhart lends Cabic a little of his impish glee.

Vetiver, Cabic’s band, has always distinguished itself in the hurdy-gurdy crowd by the quality of its songwriting. His self-titled 2004 debut was full of lilting acoustic guitar and gentle pastoral melodies (including one song about the Seattle Arboretum). On his new album, “To Find Me Gone,” he fleshes out that sound with a full – and at times fully rockin’ – band that includes members of Currituck County, Espers, Beachwood Sparks, and, of course, Banhart.

The album opens with “Been So Long,” of which he released an acoustic version on last year’s EP “Between.” Here it sounds like the Velvet Underground in an ashram. There’s a touch of Spaghetti Western to “You May Be Blue,” and a more earnest country sound on “I Know No Pardon,” with its down-on-your-luck lyrics and Wurlitzer warble. “My up’s turned down, my luck spun round and left me / no I didn’t see it coming, but oh I’m watching it go,” sings Cabic.

“Idle Ties” suggests an even more promising direction. With its waltzing cadence and rich orchestration, it calls to mind an Elliot Smith or Aimee Mann song. Cabic is one of the few freak folkers with talent enough to warrant such comparisons.

Vetiver plays Brooklyn Fireproof on Wednesday (101 Richardson Street, Brooklyn, 718-302-4702) and Tonic on Thursday (107 Norfolk Street, 212-358-7501).