Though the two haven't collaborated yet, listening to Liars reminds me of watching a latter day Quentin Tarantino movie. Both are famous for outbursts of gruesome aggression (For Tarantino, it's decapitations and oceans of blood. For Liars, it's the unstable wails and destructive eruptions of noise from front man Angus Andrew), despite
the gradual pace comprising the majority of both artists' work ( e.g. Tarantino's relaxed conversational dialogue and Liars' sprawling fields of sparse, subdued electronics). Such contrast can be appreciated as an artistic statement, but I have to admit I was curious, if not skeptical, as to how this high art would hold up performed in real time to a cavalry of weekend warriors and their Rolling Rock horses.

But like any great liars, Andrew and his cohorts had more than a couple surprises to reveal in their hand. Expanding from a trio to a quintet helped the group reach the depth of sounds they explore in the studio. The night commenced, and spent much of it's time in the dark realm of Sisterworld, the namesake of the group's latest studio effort. A melding of Liars' previously disparate styles-- dance punk, barren arrangements, cryptic themes and bloody knuckled thrash rock, Sisterworld is a tormented place reminiscent of the one described in Cormac McCarthy's The Road, "largely populated by men who would eat your children in front of your eyes."

Onstage, Andrew fit the bill, recklessly stumbling about in a trance as the group methodically careened through a brief yet dense set. Like their albums, Liars weren't raw action all the time, but their set perfected the art of slowly building tension and releasing it in a climax of primal energy. Softer songs like "No Barrier Fun" highlighted Andrew's ability to make the crowd hang on his every garbled mutter. Watching his gangly sweat covered stick of a body convulse in the dark made even the calmest lyrics feel like they were coming from a rain drenched serial killer grinning at you through your bedroom window.

The psychopath vibe coursed deeper through the show's veins in the harder songs, such as "Scarecrow On A Killer Slant," a piece that culminates in Andrew repeatedly yelling about dragging creeps into the street at night and executing them at gunpoint. Far from typical lyrics, Andrew's material sounded like the stuff masochists scrawl on their palms with their favorite blade as often as it did typical musician's notebook fare.

Though the mood I'm portraying probably doesn't make you want to listen to Liars, or read anything by a demented freak who does, what most impressed me about the show was how pleasant the group was in between spontaneous combustions. Between tales of witchcraft and murder, Angus and the guys seemed like genuinely nice dudes who were honored and ecstatic to be able to share the music they loved with their fans. Rock criticism is often obsessed with authenticity, but in this case, it was nice knowing that the scary dudes on stage weren't actually going to hunt me down after the show for the sake of their art. So what if they're faking the madness, they're the fucking liars. At least they're good at it.