The first time I saw Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever live was at DC9. It was a hot, sticky May night in Washington and the band put in an appropriately workmanlike performance. It was a good show, but Rolling Blackouts still felt like a curiosity — a quintet of Aussies who still had day jobs who only had two EPs and a few singles from a yet to be released album that only a small, devote cult was really listening too. They were working their own merch table, their pre-encore exit was only so convincing considering they had to wade through the crowd to get on and off the stage, and they made polite chatter with some fans after their set. Again, a good show, but a bit lacking in the swagger, exuberance and awe typically associated with a touring rock band.

The scene at The Black Cat on Monday, September 17th was much, much different. There, Rolling Blackouts provided an enthusiastic audience with an impossibly tight set that spanned their short but deep catalogue, injecting the sadly shrinking DC club with a kind of energy I haven’t seen in a while. It was an energy produced by the majesty of their sound, the dynamic interaction between the band members themselves, and what seemed like a commitment not to waste the tremendous opportunity they’d found themselves with. They weren’t just five dudes from Australia who booked a couple of U.S. gigs anymore — they were a kick-ass rock and roll outfit prepared to have a lot of fun.

Part of the charm of Rolling Blackouts is their inconspicuousness. Outside their scruffy bass player, you wouldn’t be shocked if you saw most of the band on the other end of a conference table. They’re cool and good-looking, sure, but they aren’t as achingly hip as some other young bands. I think this friendly and chill exterior certainly works to their benefit, as it only further emphasizes their knack for songwriting and composition. When there’s no meticulously crafted image to focus on (and yes, your normcore prints and dad hats are a part of a meticulously crafted image), the only thing left to focus on is the music.

Rolling Blackouts don’t layer their parts on top of each other so much as play them simultaneously. They’re all about the miracle of making music as a collective, and each of their breezy yet deceptively intricate songs provides the listener with a bevy of things to focus on. The relentless, motorik drum beats, the jumpy bass, sturdy acoustic guitar, glassy Richenbacher, and squalling leads combine in an unlikely sun pop stew that’d be a little overwhelming if it weren’t so enthralling.

This musical mosaic extends to the visual elements of their stage show, as well. With no clear-cut lead singer taking up center stage, what’s your eye meant to be drawn to? Is it the bassist bouncing his foot up and down with the equally on point drummer? Is it the lean and muscular lead guitarist as he serves up another dazzling, brash, tense, yet tasteful solo? Or is it any of the three singers, harmonizing and playing off each other like the heads of a charming Australian cerberus?

We live in an era dominated by solo artists and bands whose sole purpose is to fulfill the vision of one central songwriter (including some of my favorite acts of the past few years like Titus Andronicus, Snail Mail, and The War On Drugs), and there’s nothing wrong with that. But there’s something refreshing about the egalitarianism on display at a Rolling Blackouts show where the band, jamming as an organism, infects the audience through sheer force of musical will instead of any sort of pre-fabricated charisma or hero worship.

It also helps that Rolling Blackouts are one of those bands that enhances their songs when they play them live. The elastic push and pull between the band members augments otherwise simple rhythms by providing the sort of tension, anticipation, and release that defines all great rock music. “Mainland” and “Talking Straight,” the two serviceable lead singles from their debut full-length Hope Downs, come alive as driving, invigorating indie pop. Live vocals paired with the more jagged approach to songs like “Bellarine” and “Exclusive Grave” reinforce those songs’ narrative stakes, while “Fountain of Good Fortune” shifts from a solid Church homage into a moody meditation on privilege.

And of course, there are the two MVPs of the RBCF songbook. The horny and stabbing “Sick Bug” took on a new sense of longing and sex appeal in its flesh and blood form, while “French Press” made acted as a majestic closer to their main set. It was that last song where you really got a sense for how the group was soaking up the moment. The band extended the songs 90-second coda into a longer jam, flexing their melodic muscles and giving us one last taste of their supernatural sonic cohesion. If that sounds like it was a little indulgent, it wasn’t. It gave the crowd exactly what they wanted.

This was the last date of Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever’s U.S. tour, and the band members would occasionally refer to it as their “last show” before correcting themselves and clarifying that it would be the “last show of the tour.” I’ve reason to believe that they may be covering for something. When asked about the future of the band by Uproxx’s Steven Hyden,  singer/guitarist Tom Russo said “‘It’s unclear what’s going to happen, for the rest of the year. We’re touring pretty hard with the first album coming out, but I don’t think music’s our full-time job just yet.” Throughout that interview, Russo makes allusions to “other commitments” and hammers home the point that the band started out as a hobby, not a calculated career move.

So, who knows what the future holds. And right now? It doesn’t really matter. Right now, it doesn’t really matter if the band calls it quits after a pair of well-received EPs and a full-length album. It doesn’t really matter what’s at the other end of their 30-hour flight back home. Because for a couple of nights in the U.S., and for about an hour at The Black Cat, the members of Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever weren’t just a couple of lucky and talented blokes from Melbourne with real-life decisions to think about. They were headliners. They were rock stars. They were gods.