"America: You sexy bitch! We made it ... eventually." Well, that seals it. If there is anybody who is in an unreformed band—and there must be still be someone—you will be given a six-month window for your reunion. (An exception will be made for those with extinct members, i.e., there will be no Experience without Jimi, etc.) Then the gate will be shut. Because if the last band that anyone thought would get back together—Scotland's heroically-indie Vaselines, known mainly on these shores as having been Kurt Cobain's favorite band—can pull it off in such a glorious fashion, then it's time to either step up now, or quit tarnishing your legacy. Consider this a challenge.

There is a small subset of indie-pop obsessives (already a miniscule, and sometimes frighteningly pathetic, group of people) to whom the Vaselines mean everything. In fact, Kurt Cobain loved them so much that, not only did he cover three of their songs, he named his daughter after singer/guitarist Frances McKee. To those people, the Vaselines' first-ever U.S. show at a tiny club in Hoboken, New Jersey—18 years after releasing their only album, Dum-Dum, and breaking up—was like the second coming of Jesus, John Lennon, and Ian Curtis, all at once.

After a fantastic opening set from one of the UK's best new bands, the bitter and acerbic Indelicates ("We hate the kids / Useless children genuflecting / To the idols who exploit them"), the adoring audience began to crowd the stage as a gray-haired man and preternaturally young-looking woman leapt into their 21-year-old single "Son of a Gun." Live, backed by a few members of Belle & Sebastian, it was as if a day hadn't passed since its release.

Their music, a lazy mix of warped indie-folk ("Molly's Lips," "Rory Rides Me Raw"), Velvet Underground-inspired garage rock ("Dying For It," "Sex Sux"), and one brilliantly emasculating dance-pop song ("You Think You're A Man," sung, in true Vaselines fashion, as a duet), is as exciting and inspiring as it ever was. Peppering their set with sex jokes, the duo came off as a disarmingly dirty-minded aunt and uncle. Most importantly of all, they kept their ramshackle charm while sounding more professional than ever—they even managed to tune their guitars.

And this may be it: the final chance. Three shows in the U.S., and then they'll go back to their (seemingly) normal lives. Unless, of course, they decide that they can really rake it in, but that's doubtful. Like the original incarnation of the Vaselines, it was a brief explosion of sharp, slacker melody that will be remembered forever.