"Kill me with noise!!" shouted a sauced-up Ruby Tuesday's patron Friday night. He had the good fortune of directing this demand to the Rancid Yak Butter Tea Party.

Those with super-secret death metal backgrounds, those with short attention spans, those who can name a Faith No More song other than Epic or We Care Alot...

This is your band.

The quirkily named local quartet (first up on a double shot local bill) defies description by definition. I'll take my best shot: A bunch of speed metal dudes crammed into a second floor apartment above a ska club, getting stoned and blasting Bob Marley as they watch the Ken Burns Jazz series with the sound off.

And every 15 seconds, they completely rearrange the room.

Blasting through a 45 minute set, these guys didn't play the same song-the same tempo, the same time signature, the same style- for more than 45 seconds at a time. They were fierce aggro-metal gods. They were bass-driven, funky sex machines. They were two-toned rude boys. They were prog rockers with eerie keyboard atmospherics. They were devout Braniac disciples.

Most memorably, for about half a minute, they were the greatest new wave band ever.

They've certainly stumbled upon a solid idea and a solidly executed band dynamic: the shirtless bad-ass drummer; the quirkily aloof guitarist; the bald and imposing Ozzfest bouncer-lookin' bass player; and the short, scrappy, appropriately scurry whisper-to-a-scream front man, layin' down those Yanni-on-acid keyboards before pausing to scream unintelligible lyrics or just headbang for awhile.

Truthfully they owe a sizable debt to the Faith No More/Mr. Bungle school of senseless genre hopping, but the Tea Party manages enough stylistic innovations (the first band in history to use the "banjo" effect on a keyboard) to justify such an homage. At 45 minutes, the manic channel-flipping tends to grind up the nerves a bit, leaving one unsure of whether to applaud, bomb another beer or just strangle someone.

It's definitely a love/hate thing, right down to the dopey name. But you figure anyone with a pedigree in local music experimentation needs to hoist a cup with the Tea Party at least once. There are far worse ways to die.