A FEW MONTHS ago my favorite artist friend swore up and down that gypsies were "the next pirates" and that every hipster in town worth two shakes of a pointy-toed stiletto would soon toss out her Jolly Roger belt buckle and start hitting the clubs in a head scarf. Naturally, I politely accused her of various delusions, as well as, I seem to recall, a crack habit. But after seeing Full Moon Partisans open for New York's wild eastern European cabaret act Gogol Bordello, I've got to hand it to the girl: gypsies are it.

Like the show's headliners, the Partisans find a fair amount of their inspiration in Soviet post-punk (lead vocalist Sergey Yashenko is originally from Ukraine). The same folk element is present in the merry drinking-song mentality of each band's music, but there the similarities end. The Partisans aren't a mere novelty act (although as far as novelty acts go, Gogol Bordello are goddamn brilliant). They have an odd knack for rocking out like an army of teenage banshees at the same time that they reach back to low-key, guitar-driven folk melodies. Imagine Tom Waits covering Django Reinhardt's version of a Sex Pistols song. You could wean your ex-hippie dad off his scratched Captain Beefheart records with this band.

With a lo-fi, experimental sound tempered by the warm familiarity of its presentation, the Partisans work for all occasions. Their track history of playing in college dorms, BART stations, parks, co-ops – name a location in San Francisco and they've probably played it – is testimony to their versatility. You could take these kids anywhere.

Having scanned the motley crowd at Slim's, I could also say that when you go to the aforementioned anywhere, you could bring anyone with you and have a rollicking good time. By the middle of the set, as Matt Chandler busted out a bow for his stand-up bass and drummer Aron Eisenhart stood up to strap on a huge red marching band-style drum, even the lone pair of goths at the corner of the stage began nodding along blissfully to the music. Friends of the band put their arms around each other and swayed. Hippies twirled. And a weird old man in a dog collar took a break from beating time on the floor speakers with his fists to fix an adoring gaze on Yashenko.

The tribal drum beat was pleasing in the most primal of senses when accordion player-backup singer Lauren Herrera wedged a bongo between her thighs and danced in place, be it merely the effect of her micromini and pigtails, or something deeper. Perhaps it was Yashenko's spirited barking and howling as he pounded his acoustic guitar. The sheer visceral feel of it all just brought on a spirit of community. Where else would dreadlocked anarchists and well-to-do scenesters with two-tone hair come together like campfire buddies and waltz euphorically while their leader belted gibberish lyrics through an adorably demonic grin?

City folk or not, everyone present seemed to go through a certain transformation by the end of the set. Yashenko stopped singing in English, and Herrera dragged out what looked like a gutted toaster oven and beat the bejesus out of it. As the small but noisy crowd raged, striped stockings kicking in the air, I could picture them all in front of a painted wagon, banging tambourines against belts bedecked with gold coins. The person next to me couldn't hear me over the noise, but I got so caught up in the moment, I had to dork out and repeat myself: "Gypsies are it." Full Moon Partisans play Nov. 19, 12 Galaxies, S.F. (415) 970-9777. (Leah Freeman)