On February 24, the Viagra Boys strutted on stage at the Salt Shed one by one, each armed with their preferred alcoholic beverages. A can of beer in hand, Elias Jungqvist, keyboard cowboy, was the first to greet the crowd, wearing cut-off jean shorts and a cowboy hat. Next to saunter on stage were saxophonist Oskar Carls and vocalist Sebastian Murphy, carrying a bottle of wine and a Modelo respectively. Both were decked out in white tank tops, Adidas track pants, and retro shades. Following the duo was bassist Henrik Höckert in a navy Adidas tracksuit. Drummer Tor Sjödén snuck to his seat at the back of the stage.

Under flashing white lights, the Swedish punk rock group immediately jumped into their set, starting with “Ain’t No Thief,” a tune about not stealing your grandma’s Shrimp City Beach jacket. “Ain’t No Thief” is a Viagra Boys’ staple and set the tone for the remainder of the show with its incoherent lyrics, heavy punk riffs, and unpredictable electronic beats. Halfway through the song, Murphy shed his top to reveal a beer belly and eccentric tattoos.

Now in their optimal performance state, the Boys smoothly transitioned into “Ain’t Nice,” another punk rock hit with cryptic lyrics about “vintage calculators” and electronic beats on top of heavy bass. Lead singer Murphy was the most dynamic, his drunken movements comical and exciting. The crowd’s attention focused mostly on Murphy as he danced at the edge of the stage, leaning into the audience to accept many gifts from the crowd—including a self-portrait, a bong, and a disheveled blue wig that all went flying through the air. To Murphy’s right, bassist Höckert was the picture of the stereotypical Swede, with his clean-shaved head and high-collared blue sweater. Höckert shredded the bass with a deadpan look that remained—hilariously so—exactly the same throughout the entire show.

The crowd cheered as drums crashed in the opening to “Punk Rock Loser.” The song is a Viagra Boys anthem that references unique drug combinations and being “really cool.” Murphy’s gruff voice alternated with heavy, intricate instrumentals that gave the listener a slight idea of what it might be like to have “promethazine and a little 7 Up” in one’s cup. Murphy sang about “keeping things loose.” The Swedish word for loose, “lös,” is tattooed on the singer’s forehead and is clearly his motto. Murphy, originally from California, described himself as the strange high schooler with tight pants. He remarked that he moved to Sweden, where “everyone is weird,” in an attempt to fit in. He was “too normal” for Sweden.

Murphy grabbed the crowd’s attention by detailing the evolution of his writing process. He noted that in his youth, he wrote songs with ridiculous meanings: “Liquids,” a comically graphic song about a particular liquid kink, being one example. Now, he joked, his lyrics offer more commentary on society. Flippantly, then, he announced “anyways, here’s ‘Troglodyte,’” a song about how individuals with pent-up masculine rage are less than human. The next ridiculous track, “Sports,” was about activities such as “skiing down on the beach” and the sport of sleeping with sunglasses on. “Sports” ended with two minutes of Murphy desperately screeching over a heavy punk instrumental.

As “Sports” faded, the lights dimmed to a cool purple. Murphy melodically began to recite a poem about a dream that he had had about running in a field and his budding relationship with “your mom.” The slam poetry faded into the instrumental of the Viagra Boys’ next song, “Shrimp Shack,” which is very fittingly about how Murphy “met your mom down at the Shrimp Shack.” On the last note of the song, the lights clicked off; the Boys, to the crowd’s dismay, made their way offstage. Anticipating an encore, not a single person made any move to leave; instead, they cheered for more.

The band returned to the stage and jumped into “Return to Monke,” an almost seven-minute-long ballad throughout which the audience chanted, “leave society. Be a monkey.” It was getting late, but neither the band nor the audience wanted to leave. A crowd surfer (or rather, a “shrimp,” as Murphy called him) sailed over fans, his feet more visible than his head. The energy shifted as the band began “Worms,” a fan favorite about rotting corpses, complete with deep bass undertones and a jazzy saxophone interlude. Starting slow and creepy, “Worms” gained intensity as it progressed, the energy and movement of the crowd picking up alongside the song.

Murphy spoke to the audience one last time: “I know it’s been a long fuckin’ concert, but it’s Friday night, so deal with it.” He took a swig of his Modelo, staring down the crowd behind his sunglasses. “I wanna see you dance like a bunch of fools. But be respectful of each other.” The band dove into “Research Chemicals,” a six-minute hard-punk piece featuring Murphy’s gruff vocals, a heavy guitar riff, and intermittent keyboard noises. Heads bobbing to the steady drumbeat, beer cans stretched toward the ceiling, the audience danced like a bunch of respectful fools, unwilling to accept that the night was coming to an end.