Eugene looking relatively harmless... Eugene does a bit of personal business.

Eugene Robinson isn't messing around. This is how Oxbow shows start -- and it's all down-sewer from there. The band are in the midst of their first UK tour in a long time -- a tour that began with news that only three of their scheduled eight gigs had actually been confirmed -- and there's a lot of anger to be worked out in this evening's set. There had been a hint as to this, of course: the singer's earplugs are gaffer-taped to his head. This is not the sort of behaviour that you'd expect from Kula Shaker, you know.

The supports of the evening proved to be less than able foils for such crushing rock death: openers Stanton played reasonable -- though, to these ears, rather unrehearsed -- indie riffrock. Second band Econoline played (overtime, I might add) rather pedestrian janglefare with the sort of "these are our songs! Aren't they good?" attitude that made trips to the bar a blessing in disguise. The only support of any note came by way of the Lou Barlow-esque charm and sit-down poise of third-in-line nice-guy act Wolf Colonel, another American gigging his way through the UK with a good line in singer-songwriter simplicity. He was set apart, though, by taking time to nudge the running order of his gig -- as tonight's Verge show was meant to be -- to allow Oxbow a place to show their wares.

When they finally take the stage, Oxbow's set is unstoppable. It contains a large slab of tunes from the band's latest, An Evil Heat, though there are earlier works on show, too. Much like on-disc, the live incarnation is defined more by what you can't understand than by what you can: lyrics obsessed with basic drives flow past as riffs hover above tunes for minutes, before crashing down upon the audience. The sound delivered is big and hard; like Albini with bigger balls, it's something that's incredibly loud, but without suffering from any lack of clarity. If anything, it's clean; the band's sound is simpler than on disc, and there's a distinct feeling that there's nothing to hide. This is how it is. As if in empathy with the abrasive, reductive nature of the band's sound, Robinson sheds his clothes as the gig proceeds, dealing with a disruptive audience member (and Jarvis Cocker clone, albeit not as lofty) by grinding the halfwit's face into his crotch for a good minute or so. This theatrical aspect is entirely in keeping with the grand sweep of the band's narrative; songs here are epic -- about six minutes each -- with quasi-operatic moments that intrigue, even in the raw rock power environment of the pub gig.

Interestingly, Oxbow's performance ethic seems to be informed less by the idea of playing tunes and more by the idea of shamanism. Prior to mounting the stage, incense burned as the band's drummer rocked on his haunches. Guitarist Niko screams at his amp, in places of high emotion. Bassist Dan slides plates of bass along the floor, while Eugene seems to enter a trance-state while onstage -- flailing about, pushing aside vocal monitors like fog, and almost-speaking-in-tongues while removing his clothes until he's a writhing mass of muscle, singing about "a handful of ass" and assorted sexual peccadillos while wearing tightie whities and gripping his cock. It's cruder and more full-on than many bands -- can you see Malkmus doing this? -- but in the context of Oxbow's music, it works. It's terrifying, broken and rocks with a limping swing that's hard to deny. I, for one, spent the entire gig wanting to get closer, but was terrified of being on the receiving end of some of the band's more personal attentions.

Oxbow are criminally good -- which is strange, given that initially, they never intended to play gigs. The open-mouthed state of the audience -- admittedly, not quite as open-mouthed as the guy who'd been skullfucked earlier -- is testament to the fact that though their playing out is infrequent, it's as muscular and as compelling as any you'll come across. Certainly, it's more nuanced and organic than a lot of more regularly-gigging bands can manage -- this being ably exemplified by the couple of minutes spent attempting (successfully) to outplay a whistling heckler. When the gig ended -- prior to the encore, that is -- cards were flicked into the crowd. Scoring one, I noted that they bore the message that You Have Just Been Given The Treatment. Tell Your Friends! above a link to the band's website. With anything other than the primal experience that'd just been witnessed, it would've been cloying overkill: with Oxbow, it was simply the truth.

If there was ever a live act destined to turn you into a rabid fan -- or a quivering lump -- then Oxbow's it. They'll be gigging in support of An Evil Heat for a while, so make sure you check them out when they land near you... and make sure you stay right up front. You may not leave without your pants, but your gig-going will be incredibly changed by the experience.

Article by Luke Martin. Photos by Russ Fischer of The Pork Store.