Last Saturday, Bass Drum of Death left the patrons at the Soda Bar dirty, drenched in sweat and beer, and loving every minute of it.

Even the openers brought the heat, with San Diego’s Wild Wild Wets leading the charge. As a psychedelic light show played on the backdrop, the band hopped aboard Salvatore Marco Piro’s rapid-fire snare-drum assault and took the crowd on a ’60s-era acid flashback. Mike Turi put on his best Jim Morrison impression with a low growl that spiraled into yelping falsetto shrieks so drowned in reverb and effects that it was sometimes hard to tell they were coming from someone’s voice.

Brisbane’s DZ Deathrays then came on with fewer members and even more rock and roll. Leaving ears ringing like Death From Above 1979 (apparently you can’t play aggressive, distorted rock music without the word “death” somewhere in your name), the duo got the headbanging going with their metal-tinged, bass-drum-thumping, sonic assault.

It was difficult to tell who won the headbanging contest between DZ Deathrays front man Shane Parsons and Bass Drum of Death front man John Barrett. During the Mississippi trio’s blistering set, Parsons was able to get up on a monitor and fling his long sweaty brown locks into the crowd, whereas Barrett just flung his red curls side to side before stepping back in front of the mic for another howl. It was probably the crowd who won, or at least those in the crowd who aren’t currently recovering in a neck brace.

But it wasn’t as if there was much of a choice for anyone up close. When one is fully engulfed in a wall of distortion and just plain old rock and roll badassery, you can either not worry about the beer spilled all over your shirt and slam dance with anyone within arms reach, or you can leave. While the hellfire-spitting aggression of “Nerve Jamming” or “GB City” probably didn’t allow for much pleasant bar banter from those sipping cocktails, the rest of the crowd slammed PBR tall boys and shouted as loud as they could to “Get Found.”

Throughout the set, the energy never slowed. Even the band’s slower songs pulsed with that same snarling and infectious aggression. So when the music finally stopped and the crowd roared for more, bassist Print Choteau chugged a beer and the band burned through a rendition of “Rock and Roll High School.” They then wandered outside to hang out with their panting, sweat-soaked fans.

It was a night of pure, unadulterated rock music, with no pretension or trendy bullshit — just some ringing eardrums, blown-out vocal chords, and a story to tell.