When Black Rebel Motorcycle Club released Howl last fall, fans were surprised to find that the Los Angeles trio had moved from its sharp-edged, noisy garage sound to a lo-fi, smoke and steel, country and blues vibe. Howl, the group’s third album, took its reputation as big, loud guitar rockers and transformed it into something more subtle and layered with instruments such as piano, organ and trombone. BRMC stayed true to the finished product of this transition, conducting its live show like a church service. The packed-in Philadelphia audience served as its silent, reverent congregation while the smoke machine hazed the high-ceilinged Theater of the Living Arts and guitarist Peter Hayes’ lone voice bayed.

That’s how the show kicked off, without a single band member onstage. The wordless sermon continued as a wailing organ joined the room-shaking, hollow-sounding bass drum thuds. A chorus of “Time won’t save our souls” sung in a mysterious old country drawl reverberated through the venue. As the vocal harmonies of opener “Ain’t No Easy Way” began to blend, it felt like a gospel choir singing praises to the sky. But with no hymnal to follow, the awed congregation stared at the stage, lost in the bright lights and big sounds.

Sitting down at an upright piano, the makeshift pastor Hayes played soberly through the somber “Restless Sinner” before bassist Robert Been and scraggly drummer Nick Jago united the trio with some exultant foot stomping and harmonica blowing. Suddenly, solemnity was thrown to the wind, and the Old West saloon tunes sped up. The blinding, white strobe light flickered on, signaling older songs such as “White Palms” (from BRMC’s 2000 self-titled debut). It was like leaving the church for a dark, dingy back-room bar.

BRMC used more than sound to create the old-versus-new dynamic in concert; lighting also played a crucial role. In the beginning, the red stage lights glowed over the band and audience, but for the middle of the set (heavy on its back catalog), the band strutted, dressed in dark colors and silhouetted by the pulsing strobe. Later, the group switched back to ballads as the room filled with smoke again for “The Line,” Howl’s meditative closing track. Been pulled out a trombone and Hayes went back to the piano for the almost pop-sounding “Promise,” again showcasing how far BRMC has come from a garage band to a mesmerizing, porch-sitting blues group.

The encore, a five-song conclusion to the rockabilly sermon, summed up what was akin to a religious journey. From acoustic-plucked “Fault Line” to the sweet vocal harmonies of “Devil’s Waitin’,” BRMC slowly soothed its rapt worshippers after leading them through darkness and light.