The 9:30 club seethed Saturday night with a hissing of massed maracas, rattling timbals and an odd half-dozen harpie voices -- Pulsallama on the . . . warpath!

This seven-woman, New York-based post-punk outfit sent up whirlwinds of criss-cross rhythms anchored to the gut by rumbling, stumbling bass guitar. They shrieked and sneered and mugged hilariously, hysterically. They tossed a party on stage, in public, that any but the most daring would hesitate to attend in the strictest privacy.

Pulsallama looked outrageous, all decked out in shades of shocking pink, leopard skin and souvenir unshiek -- high tackiness. They were outspoken, irreverent and not a little obscene. Their songs had titles like "Gross Me Out," "The Devil Lives in My Husband's Body" (just released as a single) and others less fit for publication. Nasty, campy humor was the keynote and Pulsallama fielded its gritty, giddy gibes with great panache and gusto, a sort of bag-lady retort to the B-52's.

The opening act, Cool It Reba, couldn't have been more different. The performers were very song-oriented, very disciplined, playing a sort of streamlined, revisionist psychedelia. They retained the air of mystery and the dreamy swirling sound -- the intricate guitar interplay -- but have discarded the spirit of excess, self-indulgence that plagued the original genre.