It's not all fun and games being a negative creep, stoned or otherwise. You're depressed. You're lonely. You're loveless. You don't like people and they don't like you. You're obviously going to die alone. You know, that sort of thing. But it's a lot better when you set it to music.

Brooklyn band Cold Cave's 2009 album Love Comes Close is one of the more morose, antisocial records I've fallen for in the past year, and like the best sad-sack goth music, it somehow manages to make misery and interpersonal squalor all seem terribly, hopelessly romantic.

This is not a new trick, obviously, and Cold Cave crib unapologetically from such moody post-punk/new-wave/synth-pop heavyweights as Joy Division, New Order, and Depeche Mode, while adding a little modern wash of noise to the proceedings.

Live at Neumos last Friday, that little wash of noise was a 100-year flood, as Cold Cave pushed their more abrasive tendencies way to the fore. Openers Sleepy Eyes of Death had cranked the decibel levels as always, and Cold Cave seemed determined to top them. The band consisted of a live drummer and a trio of keyboards manned by Ian Dominick Fernow (aka noise artist Prurient), Jennifer Clavin (formerly of Mika Miko), and singer Wesley Eisold (Some Girls, Heartworm Press, settling out of court with Fall Out Boy after they plagiarized his lyrics). At one point, Fernow could be seen operating on his synthesizer with a screwdriver, and it sounded exactly like that's what he was doing.

This is not to say it was all static and shrill. Cold Cave's insistent melodic hooks were still very much in effect, even if the noise/hook ratio was turned somewhat upside down. Highlights included the frigid disco pulse of "Youth and Lust," which recalls Ladytron's electro anxieties ("You miss the neon lights/It's all plastic now"), the buzzing single "Life Magazine" (led by Clavin live, sung by ex–Xiu Xiu girl Caralee McElroy on record), the bleakly uplifting "Temptation"-redux of "Love Comes Close," and Eisold's somber, low intonations on "Hello Rats."

Also pushed to the fore was their antisocial streak. Eisold, wearing a heavy coat with his left sleeve dangling at his side and tucked into his pocket (he was born without a left hand), barely spoke or acknowledged the audience, although he did sing and scream with fervor. (The show was criminally underattended, although it attracted at least a couple dyed-black-in-the-wool goths who looked to have popped over from the Mercury next door). Cold Cave played only nine songs, a set of about 30 minutes, and then said good-night. The crowd clapped and cheered for the expected encore. There was none. Someone shouted, "Stop being so dramatic!" Seattle didn't get all that it wanted from Cold Cave, and Cold Cave probably didn't get all that they wanted from Seattle. Let's all cut ourselves over it.