As they stomp through “Professional Againster,” “Tattooed Apathetic Boys,” a cover of “Mr. Suit,” a bunch of old-school songs, and many less-than-intelligible songs on this night, the New Bomb Turks leave the crowd begging for Cleveland or bust. They stay for two encores, pressing up against the end of the night and brandishing microphones, flicking bits of sweat out onto soaked shoulders and heads, creating a pandemonium of raw guitar, drums, and bass, amplified into an energy wave, and then they leave. Abruptly. In its way, the gritty, sweaty and very orangey Abbey Lounge is perfect for this band, a garage group that never pretended to play for stadiums but commanded nights of close-up punk rock ripping instead.
