On Friday night, Dex and J.R. of Death by Sexy were joined on stage by Tony Acampora of Greenland, as DxS celebrated the release of their new EP, Big Hit. Without any prior live exposure to Death by Sexy, we can say that Acampora's quality guitar playing added to the energy and mystique of the Death by Sexy's show. While neither a Josh Homme side project or the recently broken up Death From Above 1979, Death by Sexy developed their own cock-rock glamfest formula as ostentatious and gaudy as the pink and white boas they sport from time to time.

They were not the Death by Sexy of last year, as Dex himself has admitted. Working hard, booking many shows, and sticking to their routine has paid off – giving the duo healthy doses of independence and exposure. The set opened up fashionably; the contrast of Tony strutting around with his guitar in a crisp white shirt against the solid stance of the J.R., clad in black with the his hair hanging down like a ghost of Ozzfest past. The porno sideburns on Dex and the strobe lasershow that washed over his assault on the drums didn't hurt either.

At first the crowd was confused by their roaring metal and single-minded content. This is the Black Cat right? But persistence paid as they broke through to an audience that was patient enough to get them. While many had left the mainstage room four songs into the set, those who remained were intrigued if not angrily head nodding and thrusting hips in all directions towards anyone who would take them.This the Death by Sexy Thesis – that metal is dance, metal is some of the sweetest rock, metal is folk, metal is love. The only difference is decibels and distortion.

The brashness of J.R.'s voice against the high pitch of Tony's and Dex's vocals was phenomenal and vicious. Bloodcurdling howls from the latter two functioned as an inversion of your traditional punk or Motown chorus. Death by Sexy brought these symbols of social order along, if only to let them to hiss and spit at so much musical debauchery. They are also most sing-songy when J.R. is angry, disgusted, or plain horny. Set highlights such as "Leave me out" and "You're a Big Hit with Everybody" were sweet when the misbegotten protagonists felt most frustrated, most self-destructive. The visual power of the drummer's whipping percussive movements and seated headbanging were an even match in quality with the music they produced. It was like Tommy Lee sans douchebaggery; a Tommy Lee even families could love.

As they began the last song, the percussion section opened up as J.R. jumped off stage. As Tony and Dex, once again the chorus, began banging tambourines, a bag of smaller tambourines made their way through the crowd. Death by Sexy helped the audience synchronize their jangles, on the fist-sized white drums that bore "Big Hit" stickers. When the audience got the beat right, Death by Sexy dropped their tambourines at once and tore into an anthemic hard rock song. Seduced by the noisemakers, the audience stood wholly rapt for the first time that night, awash in buzzing guitars and a return to rock n'roll debauch and poetic noise.

Washington Social Club was a poppy feel-good reflection of Death by Sexy. Despite (and possibly in spite of) the punk and uber-indie notes that the D.C. music scene connotes, Washington Social Club is a lounge act. But instead of Las Vegas Fat Elvis, they lean towards a British invasion Television or Roxy spin. The rock bassist Olivia Mancini spins around in a cape onstage. Frontman Martin Royle, who had three costume changes in the course of the set, bore a toothy grin so wide you'd think he was selling insurance. But their set was a declaration of fun, rock (not indie rock), drinking and frivolous sex. A Washington Social Club show is a return to summer camp, with all the wackiness, pranks, inside jokes, lightheartedness and bonding.

Their music itself is totally foreign to DC, best described as a mix of Irish punk and Culture Club. Their performance rumbles off the stage as they aim to turn the audience into a dance party, pumping up their crowds like brothers in a mosh pit or like players on a rugby pitch. Royle reaches out to the audience with his fingertips, hops around, and waxes poetic like a modern-day Byron. Washington Social Club wants to give everything to their fans and the fans want to give their bodies. What better way to launch into songs about sex?

"You turned on the radio, and the radio it turned me on," Royle refrained with increasing drama, the color draining out of his pale Irish face, his reddish lips pulling taut on his face. Meanwhile, the band hung on his every word, leaning towards him, twirling around him, being romanced by his motions and returning the favor like songbirds in reply. It was glam and punk bloomed sweet. Washington Social Club is like band at the end of "Empire Records" that I hate in a movie that I hate – noisy, pubescent, and overly colorful. Yet they managed to grow on me with their kindness and undeniable joie de vivre.

While their power ballads are too saccharine and Royle's voice too yelpy on them, the duets work perfectly. The lovely Olivia Mancini took point in a band versus Royle vocal and musical struggle that was both musically exciting and theatrical. This balance of power made for a better, less poppy, more moody sound. Relief on vocal duties managed to lower the pitch of the singer's voice as well, setting it well below his normal nasal sound. They rode this style through to the encore and ended with an extremely beautiful solo acoustic performance by Royle. With the character of an Irish folk song he sang with a severe, high voice and the strings rang gorgeously under his delicate fingering. It's always good to close on a strength and best to close on a surprising one.

Photo by Flickr user epmd.

Correction: J.R. is the guitarist and Dex is the drummer. The article has been changed to reflect the instrumental integrity of the band and to keep the universe from collapsing on its own negations.