It’s not like I was expecting a bad show.

If anything, The Prigs are one of the more fun and original bands I’ve come across on OurStage, with a Pogues-meets-Men-At-Work combination of raw, horn-laden punk/pop.

But remember that band you liked in college? Your friend’s band that made loud music, wrote songs about cereal, and dressed up in superhero outfits? Do you remember how you felt about going to their shows? You looked forward to it because you knew you’d have a good time. And the music? Well that was just bonus.

That’s kind of how I felt heading to the Prigs show.

Everything I encountered at T.T. the Bear’s Place validated those expectations. The muffled sound system, the opening band blasting generic funk riffs, the complete lack of carbonation in my small plastic cup of High Life. This was going to be fun.

Of course, I was wrong.

Not about the fun. The Prigs were plenty of fun. The lead singer, sporting camouflage shorts and soccer socks, danced and screamed with the abandon of a 12-year-old. The keyboardist wore a blonde wig and rocked a glorious white keytar. At one point, the bassist abandoned his own instrument to play the guitar still strapped to the lead singer. And so forth. But as the show went on, it became clear these guys weren’t just a bar band. The lead singer was actually a really good guitarist, making rapid and complex chord changes with ease. The keyboardist and two saxophonists plowed through scales with surprising dexterity. The drummer and bassist were admirably precise, holding together what should have been a train wreck.

And the more I listened, the more I realized The Prigs are not your college friend’s band. Underneath the wigs and headbands reside a group of talented musicians who just happen to be looking for a good time. And though I hesitate to describe The Prigs as subtle, their songs were unpretentiously complex. Every drunkenly chanted chorus was matched by blistering horn riff, well placed harmony, or time signature I couldn’t figure out for my life.

So, with the baffled amusement of a baseball fan who showed up to a little-league game to find out the actual Yankees and Red Sox were playing, I raised my small plastic cup of flat High Life in the air. This was more than I expected or required. Looking for a good time, I stumbled upon a band worth telling the world about.

As the chorus of their song “TV Reporter” reminded me, “Life ain’t so bad at all.”