SAN FRANCISCO GROOVE merchants Om Trio can easily carve out a hypnotic groove but have a hard time wrangling it into a discernable, desirable form. Granted, there's a lot to be said for the skill and joy with which these New Jersey transplants spin out their thumping brand of nu-jazz electro funk, and they've garnered a lot of love from local press on both coasts for their marathon shows and last year's Globalpositioningrecord (Slimtrim). They do come with serious chops and a dedication to dance-inducing ambient workouts, but something in the mix at the Boom Boom Room on a recent rainy Friday night kept them from reaching the interstellar heights they're capable of.

The Om Trio's most obvious asset was the telepathic umbilical cord running between bassist Pete Novembre and drummer Ilya Stemkovsky. Four arms, two heads, and one mind formed one of the heaviest, steadiest rhythm sections I've witnessed on the local scene. Novembre's tone was a darkened sky of warm thunder, and his loping pace anchored the band in an elephantine groove. Stemkovsky's drumming was straightforward and occasionally explosive; brother could make the rock roll and the heads bang when the time was right. But ultimately the music suffered from the pair's unwavering consistency – during three meandering hours their savantlike focus drained the compositions of almost all texture and color. These rhythm aces, as sturdy and hard-chugging as a locomotive, were about as flashy and flexible as well.

The first set found the band spreading the waxy prog-funk-tronica they'd work thoroughly throughout the night; a supersized bass line and sizzling ride cymbal quickly established the recurring rhythmic theme. As one instrumental sprint bled into another, it was hard to tell when a piece was over or just segueing into the next movement. But the band showed a remarkable diversity of influences: they managed to bring the gothic blues of Iron Butterfly, the house bounce of the New Deal, and the trance trip of Shpongle into the same number. And during the first set their technical restraint proved intriguing – I was teased and turned on by every slow buildup and false denouement they dangled in front of me.

An hour into the show the band broke loose into an emotional and intellectual climax they were unable to match for the rest of the night. As keys whiz Brian Felix tickled weird, R2D2 giggles from his Line 6-enhanced keyboard, Novembre plied a stirring, somber melody on the bass. The two sections were as distant in feel and timing as glitch-hop and indie rock could possibly be. Magnetized by Stemkovsky's unflappable beat, the two parts were gradually brought together until a wicked fusion occurred, and a swirling dissonant harmony elevated the music to its true, sublime potential. Then Felix announced the end of the set, and the music should've stopped there, but for some reason they dove back into a hard rock coda that did nothing more than rub some of the shine off the peak moment we had just shared. Damn, fellas, bust the money shot and walk away. Let 'em savor it.

After a half-hour set break of rain-sogged cigarettes and brown-bagged beer out on the sidewalk, I heard Novembre's familiar seismic rumble. And again his metronomic meter cut two ways, both anchoring Felix's ethereal keys and preventing the whole ship from moving forward. During the first song Felix introduced a special guest – his dad, Steve, who sat in on Hammond organ. Felix the Elder had a touch similar to his son's, and this odd couple actually complimented each other nicely. In fact, Steve busted into one of the only full solos of the night, leading the boys in the band with some much needed direction. After Dad's exit, the wheels just started spinning, and the music became mired in that predictable funk-junk that inspires trips to the bar. The next hour and a half passed without much notice, except for the random vocal samples worked into the instrumentals to help us distinguish one song from the next. The crowd noticed the growing monotony, and by the time the set was finished, the room was mostly empty. The band seemed disappointed and launched into the encore – complete with Daddy-O back on Hammond, running shit – a lackluster cover of the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Suck My Kiss."