As the lights dimmed in Radio City Music Hall last Friday night, a loud crash emanated from behind the sleek curtains. They parted to reveal two things: a fallen disco ball and Spiritualized, the ever-evolving psych-rock creation of Jason “J. Spaceman” Pierce.

The band was set to play their acclaimed 1997 album, “Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space,” in its entirety, and the sudden intrusion of the disco ball was a fitting metaphor for the record’s glimmering, otherworldly offering. In the album, Pierce delivers a woeful tale of drugs and love that is thoroughly cable of invading your life like some swirling visitor from the heavens.

Supplemented by a small orchestra of horns, strings and a gospel choir, the performance of “Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space” made good on its planetary promises. The casually dressed, sunglass-shielded Pierce was still able to channel the black hole of his former heroin addiction, which fuels the record’s nihilistic outlook on falling in and out of love.

For Pierce, the experience of falling in love is a literal and physical one, evoking images of wind whipping past his ears as he finds himself contorted, flailing helplessly against the whims of his lost lover. His lyrics prove that he is conflicted about the pain of romance; on the title track, he begs for “a little love in life to take the pain away,” while on “I Think I’m In Love,” he dismisses himself as “probably just hungry.”

The horns section packed a bloody wallop throughout, skronking and squealing like elephants in heat. The brass also battled the scores of guitar noise and feedback, a sound that viciously tears through the album’s drug-fueled descent.

With so much noisy repetition in the music, the audience was free to either bask in the beautiful inertia or let the most haunting themes shoot out unheeded. Nowhere was this more noticeable than in the overt heroin references throughout the album. In the shout-along choruses of “Come Together,” Pierce bombastically claims, “those tracks of mine” are “the tracks of time.”

Elsewhere, Pierce makes the spookily nonchalant claim, in near-20-minute album closer “Cop Shoot Cop,” that “there’s a hole in my arm where all the money goes.” These acknowledgments of the depths of his addiction were at odds with the gorgeous music — particularly the angelic strings and white-robed swaying gospel singers.

Pierce barely moved, occasionally inching forward on his chair at particularly chaotic points of the show, when it seemed like the thundering storm was reaching proportions beyond his hold. More likely, he sat so still because the internal furor and physical pain manifested in the music has finally, blessedly, been extinguished from his body.

The closing encore was a cover of gospel standard “Oh Happy Day,” dynamic and shouting and replete with Motown horns and grinding guitars. As Pierce gaped back in his chair while the choir joyously affirmed all sins being washed away, it felt like true deliverance.