Photo: Laal Shams

For most bands, playing live isn’t optional. It’s not only a vital part of honing musical craft; it’s also the only surefire way to grow an audience. But Bone Awl, a Bay Area outfit that made an outstanding NYC debut tonight at Fontana’s on the LES, happens to exist in the very singular realm of underground black metal. Here, mystique is everything. The less your listeners know about you, the muddier your recordings sound and the fewer copies you circulate, the more likely you are to attain cult status. Moreover, refusing to perform live can actually increase your cachet.

Over the past few years, Bone Awl has built up the kind of underground buzz that any black-metal act would kill for. Never having toured before now, the band has issued a slew of limited-edition cassettes and vinyl records (CDs? not a chance) via its own Klaxon Records imprint, all of which have sold briskly and elicited breathless praise blogosphere-wide. These releases are unfailingly lo-fi and extremely samey-sounding: They feature churning, midtempo hardcore, with shrieked vocals in the classic black-metal mold. But the members’ over-the-top aliases (He Who Gnashes Teeth, vocals and guitar; He Who Crushes Teeth, drums) and the highly peculiar themes of the songs (e.g., “Circles of Hair,” “Meaningless Leaning Mess,” “Big Decisions”) have sent cult-minded metalheads into a frenzy. In light of such a compellingly enigmatic image, it’s easy to see how actually performing in public could be a major aesthetic faux pas. But at tonight’s show, Gnashes and Crushes (along with a supplementary bassist) proved that the gamble was more than worth it.

Taking the stage after a dire, atmospheric set by the ghoulishly made-up Ashdautas, the Bone Awl men were striking in their normalcy. The lanky Crushes sported short, sandy hair and no visible metal signifiers other than a Klaxon T-shirt. Gnashes wore a long and bushy mane but seemed otherwise unimposing.

Photo: Hank Shteamer

Then, however, the frontman switched his amp on, yielding squeals of feedback, and the band rapidly kicked in. Crushes served up a driving, oompah punk beat, executed with rudimentary skill yet immense force. Gnashes hammered out his driving, ultrabasic riffs and screamed with profound rage, tilting back his head in the manner of a roaring lion. As on record, the subsequent songs (roughly 15) all sounded exactly like the first, but despite some equipment troubles that seemed to royally peeve Gnashes, the energy nevertheless swelled to gloriously bestial levels. Moshers shoved and diehards (including prominent noise artist Prurient) punched the air, reveling in the sound of a previously mythic entity exploding into vivid, sweaty reality.