The Atlanta-bred Black Lips are the sort of rag-tag Southern punks who like offending Northern sensibilities by voicing their support for global warming. Their lowbrow redneck personas and colossal booze intake lends a free-for-all sloppiness to their live shows, and with the utter drunkenness of the crowd at the Middle East on Saturday, club security was just a little on edge. Though The Black Lips have found a new home on the front page of Pitchfork, they remain punks at heart. The sold-out show drew from a wide array of scenes, with the Cambridge hipsters perhaps a little underprepared for the onslaughts of volatile punk kids. While none of these participants were quite as drunk as the band themselves, the divide between the subdued observers and the mass of die-hards at the front of the club was clear.

But for all the drunken revelry, The Black Lips pulled off a rollicking good set of scuzzy, hick-fused garage rock. Between breaks of incoherent mumbling, the four members of the band wailed and cannonballed through an hour of danceable ditties, bringing together an entire club's worth of disparate fans.

The band's ability to pummel through their fuzzy tunes even in the face of such daunting drunkenness is a testament to their tightness. The four members alternate vocals and often join together in a tribal group-sing. They holler their catchy refrains for all they're worth, and they always land exactly on point.

The rolling rhythms of bassist Jared Swilley and drummer Joe Bradley pound beneath the high-pitch twangs of the guitars and give the band their definitive rock groove. Swilley seems to fill the role of "the cute one," singing many of the lead parts and employing an appropriately McCartneyesque violin bass. Bradley, beyond his driving rhythms, sings supporting parts on almost every song and even as a drummer guides many of the music's melodies.

The two guitarists, Ian Saint Pé and Cole Alexander, play slightly out of tune, which gives their music a spooky Cramps vibe. Saint Pé's twangy tones add a rockabilly touch, and his grill of glistening golden teeth adds some credibility to the redneck image.

Alexander, wearing a poncho and pilgrim hat, seems to be the musical center of the band, acting slightly less silly than the other members and singing lead on the most memorable songs. His anthemic "Buried Alive" builds like a cross between The Monks and the theme from the Munsters with a chorus that's as catchy as it is fuzzy. In almost every other song, a similar method is followed, allowing conventionally catchy tunes to guide the lo-fi skuzz and out-of-tune twang.

The Black Lips' newest album, 200 Million Thousand, follows their trend of unique recording styles that tries to enhance their raw live appeal. The album is good, but for a band that rocks out as simply and effectively as The Black Lips, there is very little substitute for the live experience. This is perhaps why their best recording to date is actually a live album from one debauched evening on the streets of Tijuana, complete with a competing mariachi band. Most recently, the band claims to have been run out of India; given the spectacle in Cambridge on Saturday, this claim suddenly seems more believable.