My writer pal Mike turned me on to this phrase that's totally fitting when it comes to bands like Pink & Brown: panic rock. Panic rock is guitar-driven punk that comes out in dizzying spurts--noise that jerks, swerves, rushes, and halts short without any warning, scattering itself in an almost blind fury that's completely unpredictable, both the first and the 50th time you listen.

Panic-rock's vocals often sound like they emanate from an alien life form being harshly strangled in a basement. Cries are painful and twisted barkings are muffled, the sounds originating in the idea that it's more important to express primal urges and violent feelings than actual intelligible ideas. This genre includes bands like Arab on Radar and Lightning Bolt, acts known for splintering a hell of a lot of noise into a hell of a lot more noise.

Pink & Brown's members also have a very volatile sonic relationship that keeps the panic factor high. Brown's (née Jeff Rosenberg) precision drumming hammers away like a two-ton nail gun, clinically driving the beats that propel the tracks into motion. Meanwhile, Pink (John Dwyer) spins off on an invisible tether, wrapping noise around chords around feedback, keeping his bursts jagged and intense without cutting the cord completely and flying off into the crowded universe of guitar wankery (which god knows we get enough of with bad math rock these days).

Pink & Brown's panic attack doesn't come just from its music, though: It also comes from its live shows--action-oriented events where your participation will be required. The duo sets up in the middle of the room, angling themselves into the crowd. "It's our idea of being populist," says Brown. "We want to be on the same level as everyone else. They're all in the show as well." The guys also taunt the audience into having physical interactions with them by offering prizes--like free melon-ball cocktails for anyone who'll tackle/make out with Pink--a bounty that was once won by a man wearing only a trench coat (to Pink's chagrin). "If people aren't in the mood, it can totally fall flat," says Pink of the band's live act. "So we determined that we need to touch people while we play."

Pink says the idea behind the band was to create something loud, musically pattern-oriented, and danceable, albeit in a high- intensity, "stick something between your teeth 'cause the seizure's on full force" kinda way. Pink spends his shows toppling over Brown's drum kit and into the crowd, rolling around on floors or sticking his guitar though the ceiling, alternately breaking both his equipment and his bone matter (ribs) over the years. Although the performances may all sound similarly raw and spontaneous, Brown adds that the shows have evolved since the San Francisco/L.A. band started in late 1998. "Pink would basically fall on the floor in the beginning of the first song and unplug all his stuff, and I would play an extended drum solo while he squirmed around with the mic in his mouth, taking people's drinks," laughs Brown. "We have to give people time to warm up to us still, though. Otherwise they're just sort of taken aback, because we're really confrontational."

Pink & Brown is very confrontational, but physically they look like two escapees from the Baskin-Robbins School of Retarded Superheroes. The dissonant duo dresses in homemade body suits stitched in their namesake colors, looking like androgynous bendy dolls as they flail around. The whole look is fucking eerie, especially when Pink bleats his words out through the heavily distorted mechanics of a tinny telephone mic that's secured under his mask, rambling on about things like soccer moms and Christ balls (songs from their most recent disc, Final Foods) with street-urchin insanity. But even those costumes hang by a thread after Pink & Brown finish one of their live assaults, victims of their own panic-rock-stricken ferocity.

"The crotch of my pants always gets destroyed," Pink admits. "I don't know why I even bother wearing pants at all. I'm pink enough underneath to get away with it, though."