Ty Segall loves masks, both literal (his publicist's website looks like a freaky outtake reel for The Strangers) and deeply figurative. Every one of his bands — hell, every album — is a new face to try on and contort: Epsilons, Party Fowl, Traditional Fools, Sic Alps, Perverts, Fuzz and now the Muggers, not to mention the multiples of himself unleashed on triannual releases over the past decade (contrast the hand-biting hydra of Twins, Sleeper and Manipulator, then go have a smoke). The personality disordering has sent music publications scrambling for DSM-esque classification, the most thorough of which being Spin's attempt to rank every last one of them (No. 59: 2006's Scum F**k Revolt: A GG Allin Tribute; No. 1: 2012's Twins). His not-current-for-long album, Emotional Mugger (Drag City), posits Segall as a foreboding candyman dispensing comeuppance to social-media addicts in the form of razor-bladed guitar churns and cyanide-laced sneers of disapproval. Along with its VHS-taped promo copies and Satanic-versed hotline gimmick, it runs the risk of pushing retro fetishism into the red — until you play the thing and remember that's just where Segall lives. True psychedelia is a cousin of obscenity: You only know it when you feel it. CFM and Bottomfeeders also perform. Tickets $20.