A few songs into Les Sans Culottes’ set Friday night at Magnetic Field in Brooklyn, Clermont Ferrand, the group’s lead singer and ostensible mastermind, ran down the titles of the tunes his band had just done, FM radio DJstyle. “The song before zat was ‘Merci Beaucoup,’ which is French,” he deadpanned in a cartoon accent that embodied the disinterested shrug and half-patient condescension at the heart of any parody of l’attitude Française. “It means thanks a lot.”

Over the last nine years, Les Sans Culottes have employed this kind of arch Franco-American drollery on six full-length albums. While Mr. Ferrand and company do a credible and witty burlesque of such 1960s French pop stars as Jacques Dutronc and “ye-ye girl” vocalists Sylvie Vartan and François Hardy, they’re neither a cabaret act nor a purely retro band.

Unlike April March, a similarly pseudonymous American performer romancing the Bardot-era beat, Les Sans Culottes’ records are equal parts vintage American guitar crunch and Parisian miniskirt fizz. The band’s new album “Le Weekender,” which was released last week by Vibratone Records, taps one go-go-booted foot in a Parisian café and digs the other converse high-topped foot into the gum-soiled carpet of a New York bar backroom stage.

The technical perils that any stylistically rearward-glancing band face in a modern recording studio are more insidious in the digital age than ever. While the songs on “Le Weekender” are smart unions of funny, French-English-rhyming-dictionary lyrical conceits and polished singing and playing in the semi-self-parodying New York Dolls mold, the record itself errs on the side of the tidy.

Live at Magnetic Field, however, the seven-piece group — with Mr. Ferrand and co-vocalists Kit Kat le Noir and Edith Pissoff up front, keyboardist Johnny Dieppe, guitarists Theo Neugent and Jean l’Effete, bassist Francois Hardly, and drummer Max Gauche — brilliantly brought down their semi-high-concept act to a lower and grimier level. Crammed onto Magnetic Field’s small stage, Les Sans Culottes performed with a ragged expertise that had less to do with delivering bilingual puns and self-conscious showmanship than with bashing out a dozen or so songs with the same timeless controlled abandon that’s allowed the rock ‘n’ roll craze to outlive Calypso and Skiffle.

Set highlights were many and varied. During “Les Monstres du Ca” (“Monsters From the Id”) and “Les Yeux Grands Sauvent la Monde” (“Big Eyes Save the World”), Messrs. Neugent and Dieppe floated psychedelic, single-string droning notes in among the power chords. Mr. Neugent’s feedback solo on “Francois Noir” (you guessed it — “Frank Black”) was an appropriate tribute within a tribute to the Pixies frontman for whom the song is named.

Mr. Ferrand, Ms. Le Noir, and Ms. Pissoff divided their vocal chores with effortless aplomb and without any of the inertia-inducing changes in onstage energy and focus common to latter-day multivocalist rock bands. Ms. Pissoff appeared close to an inadvertent mid-song explosion of laughter here and there, which was endearing and appropriate considering the lyrical content and between-song patter.

Mr. Dieppe’s keyboard stylings admirably toed the line between adding texture and dominating sonically. Ms. Hardly and Mr. Gauche, in plunging neckline and vest sans shirt, respectively, shared the gold medal for mixed-gender cleavage. They also formed a rhythm section of such rock-solid, unified ferocity that on songs like “Allo Allo” (from 2004’s “Fixation Orale”), it was tempting to speculate that they might be siblings, spouses, or both.

On record, Les Sans Culottes favorably compare to Boston’s wigwearing patrician AC/DC parody, the Upper Crust, and at times even the pre-fab four themselves, the Rutles, the patron saints of parody bands. But on Friday night, as it purposefully and expertly mangled a French lyric version of Nancy Sinatra’s yeh-yeh favorite “These Boots Are Made for Walking,” the band evoked the Supersnazz-era heyday of the Flamin’ Groovies, San Francisco’s 100% pretensionfree keepers of the down-and-dirty rock flame in the pre-punk ’70s.