Knowing little about either band, DCist attended Wednesday night's performance by Chin Up Chin Up and The Oxford Collapse, armed only with a few tracks from each heard on Myspace, glowing reviews from Pitchfork, Mojo and a host of other publications, and a promise from a good friend that we would not regret it. Success on the Black Cat Backstage tends to be dependent on two things: your ability to soldier on despite often questionable sound, and a crowd that's on your side enough to soldier on with you. Lucky for both CUCU and OC, both factors were on their side, even through the typically muddy vocal mix.

Chin Up Chin Up took the stage in front of an impressively sized crowd for an up-and-coming band on a mid-week evening, and seemed genuinely grateful to find such a warm reception this far from their Chicago home. The band plays a heady blend of angular and arty indie rock, recalling everyone from Modest Mouse to Pavement to the Cure. Nathan Snydacker's lead guitar underlined many of the songs with a ringing, chiming tone that acted as the perfect counterpoint to Jeremy Bolen's often subdued vocals.

Two guitars, bass, and keyboards can make for a complex and layered sound, and CUCU use the layers to great effect. While contrasting but complimentary parts dance and weave around one another, they always drive towards a fixed point. The genius of the band is that they are deceptively straightforward. It's easy to let the sound wash over you and let yourself believe that the songs are much simpler than they are. Unlike many bands saddled with post-rock and art-pop tags, CUCU never come off as intentionally obtuse, instead managing to remain both accessible and inventive, melodic and challenging.

If CUCU's set was directed more at the head, The Oxford Collapse's was aimed down just a little further, square in the chest or deep in the pit of the stomach. They immediately ratcheted up the energy level already set on high by their predecessors. Indeed, the band played with a ferocious intensity that bordered on frightening. Michael Pace's guitar attack rang out like a shower of broken glass, tight and rhythmic to a degree that would have made Andy Gill proud. Bassist Mike Henry provided rumbling bass runs that chugged straight through our guts while Dan Fetherston flailed like a junior Keith Moon. So unstoppable was their energy that even as Pace took time out to retune mid-set, Henry and Fetherston paced and fidgeted, scraping their instruments as if waiting for a cage door to open.

Upon hearing that the OC is from Brooklyn, it was easy to fear a trio of self-conscious and humorless hipsters taking the stage. Anyone with those expectations was knocked on their heels. Like Gang of Four or Mission of Burma before them, the OC know that there's no shame in letting unabashed melody shine through even the most abrasive backdrop. And it takes serious balls to break into the bridge of a Jimmy Buffett tune ("I like mine with lettuce and tomato...") in the middle of an adrenaline-fueled post-punk rave-up. The band managed to do just that without seeming overly ironic or precious. By the end, as the band ran headlong into a rock-star crash of a closing, guitar necks swinging groundward in time with vicious cymbal crashes, it was clear that the OC is less concerned with fitting any sort of preconception as much as they were with rocking as hard as possible.

It's a rarity to see two unfamiliar bands and by the end of the evening regret not having brought enough cash to buy a record from each at the merch table. But that was the situation on Wednesday. With talent like this, there's no doubt they'll be playing to even larger crowds next time they come to town.

Photos by Ian Buckwalter