If you ask around, you’ll find a fair share of people who offer Fullerton, California’s Cold War Kids much affection. If your thing is fluid melodies, for instance, or taut pop hooks, you won’t find them in their repertoire. Their music could fairly be called repetitive. If you dressed sexy enough, I certainly wouldn’t kick you out of bed for calling them derivative. Some think their decision to release a full-length record distilled from previously available EPs constitutes some sort of art vs. commerce faux pas. Others, still, question their authenticity—you know, on the weekends, after a long hard week of doubting The Hold Steady’s authenticity. But it was an article in this week’s Sun that picked at what is perhaps the bitterest scab of apparent controversies surrounding the band—the insistent Christian overtones that course through their lyrical content.

No one knows for certain when they held the meeting where it was decided that Christianity was deemed a weird thing to sing about, but Cold War Kids have taken a goodly number of lashes for it all the same. Most of this fooferaw stems from—what else?—a Pitchfork review, in which critic Marc Hogan breathlessly ranted about it as if he were breaking news of some sort of scandal:

“Unlike the idiosyncratic hymns of Sufjan Stevens or Jeff Mangum, Robbers and Cowards often relies on veiled evangelical boilerplates. Blue Staters might not recognize the rote figurative language right away, but many others will: how "put out the fire on us" from "Hospital Beds" signifies a call for baptism, or how the sudden shift on "Saint John" to "All us boys on death row/ We're all waiting for a pardon" is a reminder that we're each of us sentenced to die unless we accept God's redeeming grace.”

Well, gol-ly! Those sure are some downright dangerous ideas to be singing about! Let me translate: Sufjan gets a pass for his quasi-Xtian antics because he couches it in enough twee affectation to make it digestible for the slavering, pagan Blue-Staters and their collections of golden calves, while Cold War Kids should be denigrated for using the sort of broad religious imagery that’s too easily recognized by unwashed, uncool, tres gauche Normals. Got that? Indie rock is only allowed to resonate with some people. The whole review is as inept a piece of writing as you’re likely to ever encounter, the jaw-dropping apex of which is where it assigns blame for the Kids’ success to "an emerging cabal of non-traditional tastemakers." Wow. Talk about the Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels) calling the Neighborhood #4 (7 Kettles) black!

Why am I bringing all of this up? Because this web-driven dance of hype, backlash, and manufactured potshots is truly inane, and there’s no greater leveler than the live rock show, as Cold War Kids proved last night. Far be it for us to deny anyone their opinion on the band—no matter how crapulent—but the verdict on Cold War Kids has been handed down from the only deliberative body we care about, and here it is: Washington, DC hearts Cold War Kids.

And why shouldn’t we? You know, we’re not above keeping track of which bands make stops here and which bands bypass us altogether, and if you had to hand out a gold star on the matter, Cold War Kids set the standard. We made the jaunt up to see them play Fletcher’s, caught them a month later at the Black Cat, and welcomed them back as a part of the DAM! Fest. They’ve been generous with coming to our neck of the woods to play, and more importantly, they’ve played strong sets. So, in a lot of ways, last night’s sold out show was an example of well-won fans returning the kindness, and Cold War Kids succeeded in giving their fans exactly what they came for.

Wednesday's show had the makings of a different sort of sold-out affair. Unlike many similar occasions, there was a sizable amount of crowd in the club early and ready to catch the opening acts, The Delta Spirit and Tokyo Police Club, rather than skulk in late. So, everyone on the bill got to play in front of a decent-sized throng. The first act, The Delta Spirit, had an identifiable kinship with Cold War Kids—like the headliners, they were an amiably messy, percussive fiasco, and their singer was similarly throaty if a bit more guttural and growly. They played a roots-rock inflected blend of tunes with convincing passion, and there was much hollerin’ and huddling and everyone seems well-inclined to hew to the philosophy: "If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to grab a stick and beat the crap out of something." All told, they were a solid start to the night and elicited at least one insistent cry of "We like you!" from the audience. Their singer might want to get a few technique tips from CWK’s Nathan Willet, though—what’s happening with his neck veins isn’t supposed to happen when you sing.

Up next were Toronto’s Tokyo Police Club, who were an altogether more fashion-forward and trendy outfit (and if you’re keeping score, being fashion-forward, trendy and Canadian are, by themselves, worth 2.9 Pitchfork points). On one level, they seemed an odd fit to come wedged between the opener and the headliner. TPC do more of a retro post-punk thing—angular riffs paced by cranky rhythms with murky synth squiggles burbling underneath. Their songs are lean and mean, two minutes and change numbers that storm on and then end with abruptness. If there was anything that placed them in the same frame as their tourmates, it was the fervent way they played—limbs and instruments flailing about like electrocuted things. Their set was precise and concise, and the band seemed pretty amazed at the size of the crowd.

If rehashing the whole issue of religiosity-in-music left the Cold War Kids feeling put out, they sure didn’t show it, coming right out on stage and beginning their set with what amounted to a prayer for salvation. This invocation immediately shifted into "We Used To Vacation," their staggering, Spoon-esque story of a family picked apart by a father's alcoholism, getting the evening off to a reeling start, the audience immediately connecting with the tune's recognizable piano line.

Stepping to the front of the stage, Willet took a moment to address the audience, telling them, "We’ve never played a show this big."

Needless to say, that went over well with the audience.

The band responded by hitting all the high points in their catalog, the hungry and chiming "Rubidoux," the hip-shake inducing "Hang Me Out To Dry", the haunting "God, Make Up Your Mind." While the band’s arrangements are largely pretty sparse, there’s enough space for the foursome to play with muscle and vigor—rhythms come in thick slabs, counterpointed with scars of pulsing guitar. It’s a propulsive, kinetic sort of blues workout that the audience feels in their bones.

But what makes the band whole and unique is Nathan Willet’s vocals. They are, indeed, a thing apart, ably conveying the emotional rawness of the lyrics. Willet’s range and vocal control would be impressive enough on their own, but when you add to the experience the fact that it sounds like his voice is getting dragged, kicking and screaming, out from deep down his throat, it's all the more amazing to hear. It's the voice that makes a song like "Hospital Beds" work—offering the narrator the needed amount of vitality and defiance to make his rage against having "no chance at recovery" all the more poignant, and when his falsetto fills the room, it feels like it’s spilling down from the ceiling.

If the show had a flaw, it was that the band’s performance peak happened too soon. As they launched into "Saint John", the band invited the members of The Delta Spirit and Tokyo Police Club to fully work out their needs to beat on things. The song quickly became a shambling, flailing orgy of limbs and bodies and drumsticks undulating in every direction at once. It absolutely elevated the song and felt like one of those truly maxed-out rock moments. If I'd had it my way, it would have been the thing to go out on, but on a night where the audience couldn’t have cared less about anything other than seeing a great live band, nobody seemed to mind.

Photo from the Cold War Kids web site.