“I did not have an erection at any point during the show.” That’s how it all started.

At the end of Deerhunter’s intensely satisfying set of acclaimed noise rock, frontman Bradford Cox stayed onstage to unleash a 25-minute-plus rambling monologue that touched on everything from other Georgia rockers (”F— R.E.M.!”) to an impromptu karaoke rendition of Aaliyah’s “Try Again.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Until Wednesday’s show at New York’s Bowery Ballroom, I wasn’t entirely sold on Deerhunter. I didn’t “get” their debut album and wrote them off as another overhyped band that would vanish in a year. Pitchfork giving readers updates every what-seemed-like-30-seconds didn’t help. “Deerhunter in the studio!” “Deerhunter update blog!” “Deerhunter just ordered a cobb salad and a Diet Coke!”

But thanks to a persistent co-worker (who insists Deerhunter have the potential to be the next Nirvana … seriously) I figured I’d give ‘em a shot. Plus, their live shows have a reputation for being must-see-debauchery. Cross-dressing? Fake blood? Oral sex?! You had me at hello. I’ll happily miss an episode of “Top Chef” for that.

While Wednesday’s show didn’t climax with a bandmember-on-bandmember’s-member sex act, it did provide an unforgettable night of music. Seamlessly transitioning between songs, perfectly balancing the performance art with the performance, and knocking the wind out of the crowd from sheer volume, Deerhunter finally clicked for me.

A lot of credit goes to Deerhunter’s singer, Bradford, who commanded the stage with his unique appearance. Imagine Marilyn Manson’s mugshot. Swap out the long locks for a Stephen Malkmus ‘do. Now subtract 75 pounds and add a bar mitzvah mom dress. I haven’t been so enthralled and fascinated with a singer since I first saw Antony and the Johnsons seven years ago.

Like on Deerhunter’s studio recordings, Bradford’s voice was buried in the mix and drowned out by the wall of noise surrounding him. Watching him scream at the top of his lungs yet barely hearing him made the performance even more striking. And the ambient songs that feel endless on their album worked like gangbusters live. Early on in their set, Deerhunter’s instrumentals crescendoed just as Bradford stripped off his FBI pajama bottoms and T-shirt to reveal a gold lamé gown, the top of which was designed to look like a butterfly. This wasn’t merely a wardrobe change. It was a cathartic metamorphosis.

The other four bandmembers indulged in theatrics occasionally, too, whether it was slowly rotating 360 degrees onstage or holding up a small piece of paper for the audience to read. (Did it say “Thank you?” Anyone close enough to read the scribbled handwriting?)

But it was hard to take your eyes off Bradford, partly because of his towering stature, but more because of his honest and raw performance. Bradford came across as a vulnerable man-child one moment and a threatening goblin another. His persona occasionally became highly sexualized. He flirtatiously mussed his bandmates’ hair. He kept deep-throating the mic. And he spent one song grinding against a microphone stand and grabbing his crotch.

Which brings us back to Bradford’s “I swear I wasn’t aroused” proclamation and subsequent filibuster.

After the encore, the band left the stage. But Bradford stayed. After thanking us profusely for coming tonight (we apparently paid for his medical bills?) he began his stream-of-consciousness therapeutic rant. First he begged the audience not to write about his arousal from earlier in the set because he didn’t want his aunts or mom (”she’s older”) to read about it on the Internet. This morphed into a discussion of his childhood; how his parents made him wear dresses, how he asked for Matchbox cars for Christmas but was given My Little Pony dolls instead. And three different times, in the midst of these autobiographical tales, he would say, “I hope you don’t think this is gay and pretentious.”

At one point, drummer Moses Archuleta approached Bradford and urged him to leave the stage. It didn’t work.

Believe it or not, things then got even more bizarre. Bradford asked the sound guy to play songs from his iPod so he could sing along karaoke-style. “Just don’t play Arcade Fire,” he sniffed. Next thing we knew, the opening measures of Aaliyah’s “Try Again” were pumping through the Bowery Ballroom’s speaker system. Too bad Bradford didn’t know the words as well as he thought he did. “Play some B-52’s!”

After a surprisingly solid “Dance Around This Mess” (which, I mean, how appropriate?) — complete with Fred Schneider impression — Bradford was nowhere near leaving. The audience — now down to about 20 people — started getting hostile. “Play some more music!” “Stop talking!” “Grizzly Bear sucks!” (That last one prompted Bradford to defend his Grizzly friends. One of them apparently gave him a haircut.)

Now done with the iPod-aoke, Bradford was ready to play an instrument. But he wanted his friend in the audience to sing vocals. The two of them destroyed a song by the Germs. He picked up a bass while she wailed into the mic, occasionally whipping herself in the face with it.

As soon as the song ended, the Bowery staff made it clear that they wanted us — and the rambling singer — to pack our knives and go, as they would say on “Top Chef.” (No regrets on missing that, by the way.)

The diehards who braved the storm of Bradfordpalooza (one astute blog commentator described it as “some of the best, most f—ed-up standup I’ve ever seen”) reluctantly shuffled out of the room, leaving a still-talking-despite-not-having-his-mic-turned-on Bradford behind.

It was one of the most genius rock and roll performances I’ve ever witnessed.