Growing up, I used to play a game with my older brother wherein we identified our current boyfriend/girlfriend by their resemblance to someone famous. The celeb look-alikes were entertaining, but more often than not, disturbing (“Abe Lincoln-meets-Kenny G-meets-Bosom Buddies-era-Peter Scolari”). It’s a game I’ve never outgrown.

The two Philly bands opening for Detroit’s Von Bondies are both fronted by singers who could pass for b-list Hollywood actors. Not because they had that washed-up, second-rate look, but at first blush, you’d swear Cordalene’s Mike Kiley was Elliot (Henry Thomas) from E.T. and the Capitol Years’ Shai Halperin was a much slimmer Bronson Pinchot (Balki from ’80s sitcom Perfect Strangers). Dubious associations aside, both bands performed admirably, packing in onlookers and energetic sets before the highly anticipated Bondies took the stage.

Onstage, the nonchalant Halperin stood in clear contrast to guitarist Jeff Van Newkirk’s James Brown-ish antics. Despite the disparity in performance styles, the Capitol Years’ vocal harmonies and chugging guitar melodies closed the gap between Halperin’s sky-gazing and Van Newkirk’s spastic jerking. Halperin’s vocals fluctuated between velveteen pulses and gritty pronouncements. The tunes were relentlessly catchy, driven by unremitting drum beats and the band’s forays into “psychedelic nether regions,” as Van Newkirk termed it between songs. The band’s most impressive feat? Turning the line “dirty bitch” into a soothing refrain.

In an evening of look-alikes, none was more convincing than the Von Bondies masquerading as the quintessential rock band. From the moment the Bondies were herded onstage by an imposing muscleman (presumably the security guard the band employed after the Jack White tussle), the group epitomized the picture of garage-rock stardom. Affecting detached poses, clad in just the right clothing (thrift-shop T-shirts laundered to perfection and accessories stolen from the mannequins at Urban Outfitters) and peeking out from behind asymmetrical haircuts, this über-cool quartet turned every hipster in the house green with envy.

Musically, the Bondies haven’t stumbled onto anything new (their two-minute distorted-guitar romps are fierce but formulaic), but they have tweaked the arrangements just enough to revise what the Stooges already perfected. And even though the Bondies aren’t exploring new musical frontiers, they’ve undeniably affected the territory they inhabit. The live show is electric. Singer/guitarist Jason Stollsteimer spits venom onto his mic, howling and unleashing blistering lyrics like “I’ve been sleeping at your door/So don’t ever come home.”

Bassist Carrie Smith and guitarist Marcie Bolen sang in deadpan drones, instantly sexing up “No Sugar Mama” and “C’mon C’mon,” the latter an impossibly catchy paean to lost youth from new album Pawn Shoppe Heart. To the Bondies’ credit, the formerly reserved crowd (who up until then had barely uncrossed their arms) was moved to fits of spontaneous dancing—surely the sincerest form of flattery.

The Von Bondies delivered one aural jab after another, Smith’s bass lines drilling your skull until they were all you could hear. From set opener “Lack Of Communication” to the final yelps of drummer Don Blum’s “Rock ‘N’ Roll Nurse,” there wasn’t a moment to catch your breath. There was only one direction to move: forward, and fast.