Impromptu Saturday night headliners, the Brian Jonestown Massacre spent its spotlight performance making a mockery of the audience’s patience almost as much as it did their original material.

Originally slated as Little Brother’s show openers for Guided by Voices – until that act’s cancellation – L.A.’s BJM meandered for more than two hours exhibiting remote flashes of brilliance among its sloppy barrage of psychedelic Rolling Stones-inspired rock.

Arriving onstage well after midnight, the band’s set began in the form of various guitar tunings that culminated in some semblence of composition that left many confused as to whether what they heard could be labeled as a song.

BJM’s illustrious frontman, Anton Newcombe, spent the majority of the show with his back to the audience, mumbling lyrics – for the most part, inaudibly – and sometimes insulting his drummer. Whether the group showed up for soundcheck was not addressed, but between the microphone problems and the aural disaster that was the group’s three guitars and electric violin, it was hard to imagine BJM treating many more cash-bearing patrons to the mess.

Some in the group’s seven-member lineup seemed to recognize the fallacies, though nothing short of Newcombe twisting a few amplifier knobs was done. As the show plodded on, those who had braved the slush and ice whittled themselves down from about 100 to about a dozen.

The band can be credited with having intermittent moments of beauty, though. Mostly these came from individual tracks from 1998’s “Strung Out in Heaven” LP. However, each and every time a peak was reached, it was soon demolished – via the next song or sometimes within the same – by unnesscessary and incoherent guitar soloing or by the static barrage of strings.

By BJM standards, though, the set was rather calm, devoid of the antics that have made Newcombe notorious and possibly led to the 40-plus former bandmates of the enigma. The frontman’s audience insults and random diatribes were replaced in this instance with a seemingly genuine interest with Columbus, as it was the band’s first visit.

“I say, that we all buy ourselves a drink,” Newcombe said. “Then get out the torches and go hunt down that son of a b– shooting everyone’s cars.”

Rather than be angry with the man and his band, it was hard not to form some sense of pity. Those who are privy to the band’s pristine recordings and Newcombe’s studio perfectionism were left to grapple what amount of drugs, alcohol and frustration could lead a band to resemble a shallow form of itself while on the road. After the show’s conclusion, I was perplexed enough to search out reviews from other cities, finding account after account of similar, or more bizarre, performances and behavior.

As 3 a.m. approached, the show appreared to wind down. Newcombe kicked the drummer offstage and took up the kit himself as the group attempted yet another rambling jam. As the band finished and turned to leave, Newcombe nor his bandmates waved a hint of thanks while the audience made no attempt at asking for an encore.