DCist music editor Amanda Mattos once said that the term ‘local band’ “usually softens up our critical senses.” As long as a band stays local, that is 100 percent correct. But once a band starts to blow up on a national level, the term ‘local show’ takes on a different connotation entirely. There is a certain expectation that the local shows have more energetic crowds, cooler guest appearances and better performances all around. As such, every performance I’ve seen by The Black Lips since moving away from Atlanta has been inherently disappointing.

Admittedly, I missed last March’s reportedly raucous show, and the crowd at June’s Raconteurs shows (where the Black Lips opened) had probably never heard of the Atlanta flower punks, much less their reputation for bizarre and repulsive onstage hijinks. Still, the prior Black Cat experience, in 2007, was comparatively tame after having previously been spat on, covered with feathers, and drenched by airborne half-full PBR tallboys.

But something clicked this time around. The energy of the tissue tossing, body slamming crowd fed the band’s onstage charisma. Although singer/guitarist Cole Alexander still made cracks about the band being unable to play their instruments, he proved it patently untrue as he broke into wild scuzzy guitar solos amid lunges across stage right. In fact, Joe Bradley’s drumming was a particularly impressive anchor to their Stooges-meets-Ventures garage rock anthems, especially considering that he thrashes his head about like Animal from the Muppets, while doing lead vocals on songs like “Buried Alive” and “Not a Problem.” It was hard not to appreciate his skill, even while being accosted by elbows.