It's important to take note of Boston's the Dear Hunter, if for no other reason than to not confuse the group with Deerhunter, the Atlanta-based art-rock outfit. Fans of the latter's jagged yet atmospheric awesomeness are likely to run screaming from the former's pompous, overwrought, Danny Elfman-on-steroids spasms. Wielding emotive screeches and orchestral flourishes with as much grace as one might swing a spiked dildo, the members of the Dear Hunter make "song cycles" instead of albums and seem to imagine themselves as the house band in some decadent, post-hardcore cabaret. Instead, they suck balls. If seeing the Dear Hunter at the Marquis on Saturday will in some karmic way bring the far superior Deerhunter out of its recent, self-imposed hiatus, then by all means, please attend; otherwise, keep hunting.