If you're interested in seeing the Id unleashed, the B.H. Surfers are your band. An aggregate of psychedelicized trailer trash from deep in the heart of Texas, the Surfers are like a family of hillbilles whove been inbreeding for a few decades too many; there's something wildly menacing about their free-form performances, and their show on Friday at UCLA's Ackerman Ballroom had the earmarks of a primitive fertility rite.

Filtering the dregs of hippidom and punk through an apocalyptic sensibility worthy of Faulkner, the Surfers opened the show with 10 minutes of droning bass notes loud and deep enough to provoke a grand mal seizure. The ensuing multimedia extravaganza included dry ice, strobe lights, feedback, kooky films, a light show and group leader Gibby Haynes' hollering his vocals through a bullhorn.

They kicked up a mighty din indeed, bu longtime fans can't help buy notice that Surfers' act is having a hard time evolving. This isn't surprising. The band debuted in the early '80s with such an insanely extreme style that there was no place left to take things. Still, there's no one else out there remotely like them. The Surfers have converted chaos into a polished art form.