This foursome bring out the 18 year old, under-aged drinker in all of us. Part reverie and part release, an OFF! show is a lesson in musical history, a spectacle of punk-rock appreciation, a walk through the mosh-pit of memory lane.

On a night that promised tequila-filled amateurs roaming the streets and a “super moon,” many people were barring their doors, stockpiling ammunition and preparing to spend a quiet evening alone, but those brave souls who ventured to Deer Tick at El Rey Theater on Saturday night were handsomely rewarded.

Testicles do NOT equal great rock ‘n’ roll. Can I just say “swollen labia” instead? As in, “Sure, on some late 70s recordings, Mick Jagger successfully mimicked the staccato exclamations and off-key groans of Richard Hell and Stiv Bators–but he never had their swollen labia!”

It may have just been the special “incense,” but as they sang “There’s no place that can be better, when you’re up in clouds forever,” a certain presence filled the room, and the band’s pure magic was fully realized.

Let me spell it out as clearly as I can: STOP HERO-FUCKING ROGER WATERS’ RICKENBACKER 4001S. If you must steal, at least copy some obscure riff from the Orange Bicycle or Aphrodite’s Child or the third West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band album; then only me and DJ Nobody would know you’re biting people’s songs.

At its best, these 80s imitators sounded like Bryan Ferry singing “More than This,” except with all the charm and twinkle sucked out, leaving a residue that stunk of congealed Spandau Ballet, When in Rome, Haircut 100—and before you start to think “Wow, I love those bands, and that sounds awesome,” remember that the best singles by those bands were great because they had such strong personality! Drain the personality, and you’ll have Wild Beasts. Henri Matisse wants to paint their noses red… with blood.

Though singer Glenn Tilbrook had grown General Custer’s beard (which also dangled a bit like Col. Sander’s bowtie), and I wished they could have talked Paul Carrack into reprising his vocal on “Tempted,” these guys sounded exactly the same as I imagine they would have in 1982. The timeslot was perfectly 80s, too, as the sun had just set, and the polo field palm trees behind them were lit up in neon colors that matched their evening jackets, like in a Miami Vice nightclub scene. There was a little weirdness here and there from keyboards that didn’t quite fit, but if awkward keyboards aren’t the Squeeze sound, I don’t know what is.

Then the crest of the wave broke. The last note of every instrument intoned, with just the violin player doing gypsy peals and low notes, grinding into the strings two and three at a time. Then a loud crackly voice from offstage started to shout inanities at us. And the chug came back. It was INSISTENT. It was closer. It was right at our door…. The latch is pulling… The door is opening…

At this point the rain was light but the wind was heavy, and I saw Liam Philpot of Jimmy Cliff’s band nearly run for cover as the giant dangly trusses of lights and cables above him wiggled violently in the wind. Whoever the DJ was, he had a smirky sense of humor, as he played “Riders on the Storm” throughout setup.