At the Biltmore on Friday, May 3

There is an element in human beings that you don’t often see in so-called civilized society. That element is the desire to get the shit kicked out of you, have someone scream in your face, and generally act like the self-abusing monkey you are. Case in point: the METZ show at the Biltmore Cabaret on Friday, where noise-punk brutality was in full swing.

Bringing the eerie calm before the storm was opener Cindy Lee, a local gender-bending band that blends experimental art rock and harmonic garage pop, for dreamy and sometimes disturbing results.

For this gig, frontman Patrick Flegel flew solo, accompanied by only a six-string and his fluttery falsetto voice. Dressed in drag, Flegel danced his fingers across the fretboard as audience members stood slightly dumbfounded by his hot-pink dress and brunette bob wig. Behind the bright melodies and kitschy makeup, there seemed to be a deeper, darker story. And Cindy Lee’s complete lack of introduction or banter added to the set’s mysterious aura, whetting your appetite for more of this strange, striking figure and equally fascinating tunes.

Second opener White Lung, the local punks’ hometown hero, injected adrenaline right into the crowd with its trademark high-energy, doomsday-dire sound. Never missing a beat, the quartet played with a fierceness that bordered on hysteria. Guitarist Kenny William, as wildly talented as ever, shredded so hard that he broke a string, borrowed another guitar, and then broke another string.

Hiding behind her pearly-white blond hair, singer Mish Way somehow kept cool and aloof while snarling and howling like a furious poltergeist, her vocals really shining through on “St. Dad” and “Thick Lip”, off White Lung’s stellar last album, Sorry. This is a band not to be missed live.

After two tough acts to follow, Toronto’s METZ took the stage for an audience already teeming and seething with excitement. The only thing to do at that point was crank everything up to max volume and intensity, which the noise-rock trio did in spades.

Owing a hefty debt to Big Black, the Jesus Lizard, and early Nirvana, METZ stays true to a long tradition of lead-heavy, loud-as-possible rock ’n’ roll. Harshly illumined by bare white lighting, every bead of sweat was visible as the band fired off songs from its self-titled debut like rounds of pounding artillery.

Singer-guitarist Alex Edkins was mesmerizing to watch, shaking violently like a triggered explosive, before screaming his head off in total emotional abandon. It sounded like something evil was tearing at his soul, and the crowd lapped it up, shoving and reeling in heaving waves.

When the band launched into standout tracks “Get Off”, “Wasted”, and “Wet Blanket”, the the mosh pit was packed so tight that those in the front row practically head-banged their skulls right onto the stage. One pink-haired fan at front and centre actually managed to perch on the edge of the stage at one point. Facing the throng and enjoying the band’s view for a bit, her smile seemed to express both amusement and relief.

But for all the hard-hitting mayhem, after a while METZ starts to have the effect of a really potent headache—a little numbing, repetitive, and in need of some more catharsis. The melodies are there, buried under the noise. And if METZ could just coax them out, bring them further into the forefront, this band is only going to get better and better.