Sometimes, all it takes to be sucked back into a memory is a single, sensory trip wire.

It could be the mixture of gasoline and fresh cut grass, the lingering scent of smoke and stale beer in a barroom, or the taste and warmth of your favorite macaroni and cheese. In that very instant, that catalyst is a time machine back to the original moment of exhaustion, euphoria or comfort.

The concert experience can also bring on such a memory, especially one as historically eccentric as is typical of Atlanta punk band Black Lips. Their early days as a band were marked by in-studio antics, relentless touring, and a rambunctious live show. For prior witnesses, the mere mention of the band likely conjures the sound of firecrackers and broken glass, or images of flying beers or band members’ genitalia. A quick spin around the internet corroborates this for those who have not had the pleasure.

Black Lips aimed to overload all senses on Monday at The Waiting Room, on tour in support of this year’s release Under the Rainbow. The album, produced by Patrick Carney of The Black Keys and Thomas Brenneck, is an amalgamation of garage punk, blues, rockabilly and southern rock influences that have come to define Black Lips.

Omaha's own Solid Goldberg and the Nashville rock band Natural Child opened the show. Solid Goldberg set the tone, crooning over distorted keys and synthesizers to create doo-wop dance gems. Natural Child followed, calling on influences from Lynyrd Skynyrd style harmonic guitar riffs and driving blues rhythms reminiscent of Chuck Berry. While the crowd bobbed along, they took care not to expend energy that would prove valuable during the main event.

The audience at The Waiting Room continued to amass at the front of the floor as Black Lips entered. The distribution of 18-to-40-year-olds was indicative of the type of following the band has continued to build, and of their success at drawing old fans back into the fold. The crowd was buzzing with the giddy anticipation of what was to come. The rear of the stage was draped with two sheets on which the words “BLACK LIPS” were sloppily painted in black, accented by pink flowers at each ends of the text. The faint hue of blue light fell over the venue. An intentionally musky scent streamed from the smoke machine stage left, no doubt meant to create an association with in the mind of concertgoers between sense and experience.

The band pushed the throttle from the gun on “Family Tree,” with guitarist and frontman Cole Alexander’s dissonant guitar solo only just discernible above the grungy mix. A few songs in, and each band member had their turn at the microphone for lead vocals. The pace of the set, which clocked in at a shade more than an hour, hardly slowed enough for any of them to swill a beer between songs, let alone say anything. Guitarist Ian Saint Pé Brown announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re spanning our entire career tonight.” True to their word, the band trampled through their 11-year, seven-album catalog on the strength of scuzzy power chords, driving rhythms, and shouting ensemble vocals on anthems like “Smiling.” It was nearly impossible to tell which instrument noises were coming from which direction as waves of sound crashed over the crowd.

At least in terms of extra-curricular activity, Black Lips seemed uncharacteristically subdued. The band’s onstage debauchery has been known to include the occasional pyrotechnics, bodily fluids and nudity. Yet apart from Alexander spitting into the air — and, at one point, vomiting off stage left — the source of the evening’s fireworks was mostly confined to the southern garage punk sounds they produced and an audience eager to rage. PBR cans whizzed past the dodging band member’s heads, years of raucous touring experience informing their Matrix-like evasive maneuvers. During the encore, a nearby patron splashed Alexander in the face with beer, which he seemed to find irksome. A woman in the crowd commented loudly on her level of band-induced sexual arousal. All business as usual at a Black Lips show.

The dancing and jumping and pushing intensified as the night wore on, culminating in a near-riotous end to the show. At the close of the main set, Alexander hollered, “This one goes out to the kids!” before they all started in on “Bad Kids.”

A quick pause ensued, accompanied by eerie interlude music, before they strolled back out for an encore that included an incisor-plucked guitar solo from Alexander and a lot of shoving at the front of the stage. Add sweat, in buckets, and an elbow to the chest from a stranger to the list of sensory experiences. A combination that powerful could knock anyone back to that boisterous pit.

Andrew Stellmon is a Hear Nebraska contributor. Reach him via HN’s managing editor at chancesp@hearnebraska.org.