You can tell a lot about a band by the way its frontman dives into the audience. Thursday's Geoff Rickly takes a sloppy belly flop, then crawls back over fans' heads like a man crossing the Sahara. AFI's Davey Havok neatly somersaults into the fray, then mysteriously reappears onstage, as if by teleportation.

But then, Havok always works clean, whether he's standing aloft on the crowd's hands during the set-closing "Totalimmortal," or looming over the audience during, well, pretty much every other song. He's a vision in pristine black, down to his hair, which is a darker-than-dark marvel of cosmetic science. His bandmates are equally stylish-bassist Hunter looks like he was plucked from an Australian ballroom-dance competition, drummer Adam Carson stares coolly from beneath a Frankenpunk haircut, and guitarist Jade Puget looks like he's on work release from a Flock of Seagulls tribute band-which suggests that they've decided no one gets to be the biggest band in the world without looking the part.

Like AFI, Rickly and Thursday are living high in the dirty business of arena dreams after years of chiseling in small clubs. Though he's not born to the role the way Havok is, Rickly's becoming one hell of a frontman himself, a scraggly dude with a mouth you could stick a basketball inside. He wound his microphone cable around his wrists, led the crowd in clapping, and twice performed a unique dance that showed off his limber elbows. The crowd was loudly with him but fell silent when he dedicated the mid-set "M. Shepard" to Matthew Shepard, saying he was disgusted "that we live in a country where you can get killed for doing what you want, even if it hurts nobody." Maybe RCKTWN, a club founded by contemporary Christian music pioneer Michael W. Smith, wasn't the right venue for the sentiment; but it was more likely that everyone was just worn out by then.

Though "Division St." and "Signals Over the Air" were electrifying live, seven Thursday songs seemed about all anyone present could handle. Everyone except Rickly, that is: He never tired. And though Havok's voice gave out for good a few days later, forcing AFI to pull the plug on this tour, Rickly's wail held up through a half hour of screamed vocals that made me worry he would sneeze and accidentally blow his trachea across the room. As even the biggest dudes in the mosh pit melted into submission, Rickly climbed atop the drum kit and leaped from the bass amp. When this guy straps on his "The Fly" glasses and embraces his inner Bono, I want to be there.