The Slats at the 7th Street Entry

After finally realizing that the band dressed up like accountants for their big set at O'Donovan's last Friday night were, in fact, accountants, I relocated to the Entry to see local punkers the Slats. The Iowa transplants took the stage in a big, sweaty clamor, looking (this is strictly guesswork) like they might be wearing the same socks they wore daily in college--still unwashed, of course, for luck. They played with frenetic energy, bringing the audience to the brink of Ed Sullivan Show-like mania with their pop-punk schizophrenia. Nearly sadistic in their commitment to eardrum-bursting guitar roar, the Slats offer up their sugary melodies as sacrificial lambs before feedback-laced power chords and general racket. At least one song was about social anxiety; or maybe all of them were, indirectly. It's grating stuff, also entrancing, and kind of hard to resist.