Baton Rouge, Louisiana rhythm insurgents Michael Miller and Scott Campbell’s Bones is one weird-ass band, a twosome that has very little in common with updated hippie rock pretensions of the White Stripes, and one that digs into a far sicker, psycho-sexual region than capable precedent the Black Keys. In fact, they represent a new breed of Louisiana stink-stirrers, bringing up the rear for hard-hitting New Orleans boozehounds the Morning 40 Federation—and threatening to overtake them entirely. Bones works a sticky, oozing trash-garage wallop that, despite the spare two-man blitzkrieg attack force and fealty to their home state’s swampy blues grinds, arcs almost into shadowy Black Sabbath-esque territory, a region fraught with menace, corruption, and who-gives-a-damn abandon; dressed like rogue plainclothes cops, one abusing a minimalist drum kit and the other brandishing either a battered upright bass or a Flying V guitar (adorned with four bass guitar strings), it’s a gutsy, horny, thoroughly crazed style that the duo characterizes as sounding like a “sex-induced heart attack.” Their throbbing cacophony has been infecting the Southeast since 2002, when Miller mistook new neighbor Campbell for a drummer and played him some of the “weird songs” he just put together. As Miller tells it, “I said, ‘You still playing drums?’ He said yes, but he was lying and didn’t have any drums.” This appropriately-twisted inauguration launched one of the most intriguing new wrinkles on rock’s ugly, aging face, and this visit to the Golden State should be thrillingly disastrous. (Jonny Whiteside)
BONES PERFORM AT GALLERY 51, 233 E. 2ND ST., POMONA; WWW.51BUCKINGHAM.COM OR WWW.MYSPACE.COM/51BUCKINGHAM. FRI., 8 P.M. $5. ALL-AGES.