Post-disco-dance-punk and '80s-revival electro is everywhere and lame. Cheap gags such as skittering hi-hats and absurd lighting rigs (as well as even more absurd costumes) abound. And while the fact is that it's no small thing to coax genuine dancing from a St. Louis rock audience, the Black Angels seem to have found the secret. The band drones and sways and buzzes like the thousand other Velvet Underground apostles, but in the process conjures up a serious opium-den ritual vibe. (Honest-to-God, it seems like Nico herself might fade into existence and grind up against you to the narcotic thud-thud-thud of the tom.) Heady praise to be sure, but the alarming lack of prurience in the indie-rock realm terrifies. The worthy stoner-rock trio Vietnam opens.
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