Charlie, be warned: Guitar Wolf plays abysmally. Three men in black leathers and dark glasses, they pose with disdain and belt out the sort of songs you hear in cornball, hot-rod horror movies. Only worse. They ignore the audience and even each other, pouting behind their unfriendly shades as if each is courting his own full-length mirror. Their musical technique is poor. The stocky bassist (Bass Wolf), in his sleeveless trucker's singlet and abundant tattoos, affectedly chews on a mouthful of gum; scrawny, shirtless drummer (Drum Wolf) plays stiffly behind a low-rider drum kit, combing back his hair between songs. But what makes Guitar Wolf so horrendous--so awesomely horrible--is Guitar Wolf himself, or Seiji Anno.

In concert, against an introduction of trashy taped music, Seiji downs a quarter bottle of vodka in one swig, discards the bottle, walks deliberately to the microphone, screeches "Rock & roll!!!"--and Guitar Wolf begins its descent. Drums and bass kick-in and Seiji bashes out grandiose power-chords. These are so outrageously off-key that at some point, a member of the audience will likely leap up to help him tune. But his cheap instrument is beyond hope. At times it simply short-circuits and offers no sound, although this doesn't stop the mop-topped bandleader--gushing sweat from under his stifling leather jacket and jeans--from continuing to flail, Pete Townshend-like, at the silent guitar, lunging across stage, leaping in scissor-kicks, swinging off lighting bars and falling over.

But no matter how out of control he becomes, it is hard to ignore Seiji's electrifying presence. Despite the chaos of a Guitar Wolf gig, he never misses a cue or loses sight of his mission: to dig down to the essence of rock & roll. He knows how explosive the music should feel, how it should offend conservative values and even common sense. His guitar solos may be a disastrous sputtering of muted notes, open strings and miss-hits, but their structure and energy rocket the music forward. He may not know how to play, but he sure knows how he should play. The irony is that with these passionate, self-destructive performances, Guitar Wolf runs the risk of burning out too soon.

At the climax of the show at Crocodile, Seiji climbs upon a monitor speaker and swings from a lighting bar. Letting one hand go he stabs at his guitar, creating a wail of open-stringed sound. His other hand slips and he falls to the dance-floor. The audience draws back. He's probably not hurt, but at first he doesn't move. No one offers a hand. It is difficult, perhaps, to see that Guitar Wolf is for real. And it is true that with their retro looks and the cover-versions in their repertoire they may at first seem like an imitation. But this band is unique.

After the show I see Charlie again, now reserved and slightly bewildered. What did he think? "They're the exact opposite of our bands," he says. "They have what we lack most."