DON'T BE FOOLED by the fact that the members of the Cold War only play two instruments and the vocalist is all elbows and knees: this musical Luftwaffe pull off the volume of a much larger band. Or maybe a small militia. The San Francisco trio of insurgents aren't kidding when they boast, on their Web site, "This is no quiet revolution." Follow the link marked "Educate," located roughly where most bands hawk their wares, and you'll find that it's also no clearly defined revolution.

The Cold War don't want to foist their merchandise on you – they peddle ideas. Between its Communist propaganda aesthetic and the potlatch of links in the "Educate" section, the site covers a slew of social and cultural uprisings from the 20th century. From Guy Debord and the Situationists, to the Baader-Meinhof Gang, to San Francisco's Indymedia, this is revolution as fashion sensibility. In an "open letter to the planet," vocalist Tamera Ferro describes what the band do as "art and revolution entwined – the idea of a Cold War, a state of hostility and conflict without actual violence, can be applied to fighting with music, with words, with images, with love, with creativity, with the absence of consumption, with mere presence and numbers." An admirable intellectual ideal, but unfortunately, it's not mentioned during their show at the Rickshaw Stop. Essentially, you're looking at an army that spends its budget on attractive uniforms and posters with witty slogans – but don't worry about the AK-47s. It didn't have enough left over to buy ammo.

Of course, the band sure are fun to look at. In skintight black clothes and a pearl choker, Ferro is fierce and beautiful as she windmills her arms in front of the mic and dances a spastic frug. After playing a few songs for the smattering of underground nouveau-mod elite, their figures as skeletal as the music's dada-esque sound, she commands them to join her. "All right," she chides the fashionistas, "fucking dance." They immediately obey.

Drummer Allison Pheteplace, in fedora, tie, and suspenders, looks like a character straight out of Guys and Dolls, and she closes songs with a hollered curse (most notably, the first song's cheery "That sucked!"). She resuscitates my Muppet-fueled childhood belief that a drummer, like good ol' Animal, isn't so much a human as a wild, colorful creature who must be physically restrained for the safety of the audience. Rounding out the violent but gorgeous trio, bassist Tony Dryer smiles to himself while really pulling his weight. With no guitars in sight, he owns the melody line and owns it well.

Perhaps the socialist inspiration is to blame: these kids have the feel of a collective unit. So help me, they actually connect while onstage and quite blatantly express the fact that they're having a good time. Ferro's screamed vocals are as bare as a wire and ornamented by Johnny Rotten-style flourishes, well supported by Pheteplace's perpetual fortissimo drum crashes and Dryer's thunderous bass. As they dance to their own music, a clear exchange of energy takes place between the threesome.

Beyond the fun, it's difficult to find the sociopolitical ideals of their Web site translated into the show. What can be said about a band's message when the only audible lyric of the entire set is "strychnine"? (Good one, though.) Despite the sparse weeknight crowd, the gleeful energy of the kids up front raises the question of whether substance matters much in this scenario. They're here to dance. It's not really the time or place for discourse. While it's a relief to see a brainy band that know their history and strive to create socially relevant art, there's also something to be said for like-minded artists who don't subject their fans to self-righteous, leftist diatribes. (Zack de la Rocha, I'm looking in your direction.) The Cold War are almost subliminal with their message, however, bringing together art and politics with tasteful subtlety and making one hell of a din in the process. Baby, oh, baby, it's the blitzkrieg. (Leah Freeman)