“Rock and roll don’t come from your brain, it comes from your crotch.” Thus spake James Franco’s Daniel Desario on Freaks and Geeks, and though I might disagree with the universality of that sentiment, there’s no denying that rock and roll emanates from a primitive place deep inside of us (how else do you explain the success of Limp Bizkit?).

While there’s no shortage of subgenres taking themselves too seriously, perhaps the biggest offender is black metal. Through all the corpse paint, church burning, and inter-band homicide, it often seems like there’s no room for levity in the scene. Even in the less purist offshoots like blackgaze, everything is delivered with complete sincerity.

Then there’s Kvelertak. Dubbing themselves “black ‘n’ roll,” the Norwegian sextet takes the blistering sonic assault of black metal and injects it with a heaping dose of crotch-thrusting rock and roll.

You might as well call it Blue Öyster Kvlt. And if there’s any question, it rules.

Admittedly, this is the first Kvelertak record I’ve spent much time with, and so I was surprised to hear that many existing fans weren’t much impressed by it. That must be due to overexposure, because this is a nonstop cavalcade of white-knuckle riffs and infectious grooves.

Despite his throat-sheering shrieks, lead vocalist Ivar Nikolaisen delivery has all the swagger of Roger Daltrey or Robert Plant, with the occasional melodic gang vocal singalong. There are plenty of twin-guitar lines that are more glam than gore, landing closer to Blue Öyster Cult than Iron Maiden. The rhythm section flits between black metal fury, hardcore punk, and funk-rock grooves without problem (check Døgeniktens Kvad, which inserts a bluegrass-inspired riff between blast beats and tremolo picked guitars.

And while they aren’t exactly taking themselves seriously, they’re not a joke either. This sort of gimmick can easily slide into pastiche, but this stays safely on the right side of the line. There are even some moments that approach earnest post-black metal bands like The Silver or White Ward, without being weighed down by the earth-crushing gravity of those acts. It’s a fist-pumping, head-banging motorcycle caravan out of the gates of hell. To tell the truth, this is exactly the sort of music I imagined as a kid when I saw the cover of Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell in the jukebox at Pizza Hut. And that’s all I’ve ever really wanted.