THE '80S ARE upon us. If it weren't for that era, countless practice spaces across the bay would be filled with kids standing around in turtlenecks scratching their heads. Not to say I'm not thankful. If given the chance to choose which decade would serve as fodder for all of those bands, I'd pick the '80s, the most varied and playful period I can think of.

The Weegs are obviously on the same page. Dave, Leva, Greg, and Mia share "Weeg" as their surname and play like a 1981 New York no wave band that could have been a legend in their own time. In the sweaty, curtained confines of the Hemlock Tavern, they channeled the Addams family by way of Captain Beefheart, creating an organ-heavy clamor that 10 people tried to dance to. Next to their jerkily sexy rendition of Prince's "Controversy," the high point of the evening occurred when Dave Weeg assaulted his guitar with that venerable hipster's club card, the studded belt, summoning that "wall of noise" everyone likes to talk about. Whether he meant to make a statement or not, it was crafty.

The Lovemakers then stepped out to prove they know their '80s pop culture like the back of Anthony Michael Hall's hand. In every aspect of their sound, from Scott Blonde's sparkly guitar plinking and throaty little yelp to the thumping dance beats coming from Jason Proctor's laptop, their penchant for genre studies was apparent. They considerately scooped out the insides of every essential new romantic album and served them in neat little balls. Like many in the audience, Blonde never stopped dancing – he probably left smooth spots on the stage floor with his impassioned footwork. That aside, the stage show was basically what a Fischerspooner performance would look like without financial backing from artsy millionaires.

Blonde and bassist and electric violinist Lisa Light shared vocals and the tasks of vamping, shimmying, and casting sidelong glances at the audience. Blonde took off his shirt to reveal shiny little pectorals, and Light did the same, exposing a silver glitter bikini top and a concave tummy. The audience were more than grateful. Then, of course, there was the kiss, which I had heard all about from friends and write-ups alike. As a testament to their name and their young, unchecked sexiness, the kiss between Blonde and Light has seemingly become the group's trademark stage gimmick – their bat with the bitten-off head. It rode in on a wave of "oooh!" from the crowd – the kind of sound you hear when characters kiss on television sitcoms with live audiences – and I found myself hoping that the word kiss wasn't scrawled between song titles on their set list. The whole thing looked like a racier version of that scene in A Mighty Wind in which Eugene Levy and Catherine O'Hara share an onstage smooch, only a lot longer and a bit more ridiculous.

While the songs sounded catchy enough, everything ended up blending together into one upbeat, "Blue Monday"-ish blur. Without the reliable buffer of nostalgia firmly in place, you would be surprised just how damn tedious that kind of music can get. Now, I empathize with those for whom the '80s are a decade awash in contextual mystique. As a significant cultural era in which "hey-check-me-out"-ness became a generational norm, it left a mark on those of us who were too young to play along at the time.