The leather boys in Nine Inch Nails layered their electronics and percussion in a richly ominous instrumental, “Eraser,” that was as darkly beautiful as a femme fatale in a black cocktail dress. On a cool, clear Atlanta night, the band burned with impassioned focus through a 45-minute set that seemed all the more fierce for its brevity. Apparently, volunteering to open for enigmatic rock icon David Bowie doesn’t leave much time for destroying instruments, and the headliner probably preferred the stage to stay somewhat intact for his performance. So NIN were forced to concentrate on provoking the crowd solely with their music, and the challenge brought out the best in them.

Sharpened by more than a year of steady touring, and assisted by an amazingly clear sound system, the band’s malevolent narcissism connected on a level deeper than expected. In front of a crowd that shoved together older Bowie fans with the wounded youth and vainglorious vampires who make up NIN’s cult, frontman Trent Reznor strove to prove that his rage, which often comes across as so stagy, was based in true emotion. He succeeded. His obsessive angst and loathing were cut with a romantic longing that made up for his persona as a petulant, over-the-top provocateur.

Still, the water flew—although, interestingly enough, while everyone onstage hurled bottles and repeatedly doused each other, no band member ever pitched a stream at Mr. Reznor. Other than soaked clothing, most of the band’s fabricated outbursts were aimed at the microphones. Guitarist-keyboardist Danny Lohner chalked up the most mic casualties, swiftly slamming his defenseless metal stand to the ground at least a dozen times. The most telling time came when he trashed it with a sudden, savage lurch of his guitar, taking a second to stand over it like a hyped-up football lineman who’d just sacked a quarterback. Then he turned and calmly walked to the side of the stage to take a refreshing draw from a plastic cup. He must have been really angry about something.

The real shocks arrived more subtly. As the ethereal tones of “Eraser” shifted into “Subterraneans,” Reznor slipped quietly onstage toting a tenor saxophone. Without fanfare or spotlight, he eased into a sturdy solo that had the gentlemanly, full-note romanticism of a sax monarch like Lou Donaldson. This tour marks the first time Reznor has displayed this talent onstage, and it was the most surprising element of the show. The coarse, uncivilized rock ’n’ roller blew fat, warm, liquid notes. As the crowd marveled, out walked David Bowie, striding center stage with deliberate self-assuredness.

No set change. No time to adjust. Until then, the NIN song had been wordless, and Bowie coolly provided the latter half with lyrics. Then, in an explosive burst, he and Reznor were side by side, roaring into an old Bowie hit, glancing at each other and half-smiling as they bounced and seethed, “Scary monsters! Super freaks!” The device detonated as planned: The audience went electric; the two overwhelmingly self-conscious performers managed to baptize and renew an equally self-conscious crowd. For a song or two, the people gathered at Lakewood Amphitheatre experienced the kind of transforming, freeing release that rock ’n’ roll promises but so rarely delivers in this age of calculation.

Of any rock icon, Bowie has repeatedly tapped this release in the most sideways fashion. Never personal, never angry, never even rawly lustful, he creates characters who use vanity and contrived alienation to tap into apocalyptic fears and the perverse undercurrents of sexual desire. The result is individual liberation achieved through decadence, a heady escape into pleasure in the face of annihilation.

Like Reznor, Bowie understands the value of presenting oneself as an alienated being. Like Reznor, he understands the value of alluding to the avant-garde in a way that toys with the outer fringes of the pop mainstream. And, like Reznor, he understands the value of a catchy musical riff. The NIN leader, in interviews promoting the current collaborative tour, crowed about his artistic debt to Bowie. That respect was evident as Reznor and his quintet lit a fire under Bowie for several songs. At times, the band even smiled.

Through several songs, Reznor remained at the front of the stage with Bowie, sometimes banging at a keyboard, sometimes trading vocals on songs from both men’s repertoires. “Reptile” was followed by a new Bowie tune, “Hallo Spaceboy,” the most industrial and aggressively rhythmic cut on his new album, Outside. The men sung their lines jointly, Bowie crooning in his best Anthony Newley warble, Reznor fuming at a higher, more contentious pitch. With each song, more of Bowie’s band took the stage. By “Spaceboy,” all seven instrumentalists, including guitarists Reeves Gabrels and Carlos Alomar, had joined the distinctly younger NIN quintet. After the song, only Reznor stayed. The two singers then performed a powerful version of Reznor’s hit, “Hurt,” with Bowie stepping back from the mic each time Reznor scowled, “I wear this crown of shit!”

For a few songs, Bowie and band maintained the intensity and fervent power of the duets. As Reznor left the stage, the band punched into “Look Back in Anger” and then Bowie’s current hit, the provocative “Heart’s Filthy Lesson.” But as they got deeper into the set, it became apparent that the show would concentrate on Bowie’s new concept album—and that the band simply couldn’t replicate the dense, jarring textures that producer Brian Eno brought to Bowie’s vision of a world turned cold and brutal by technology.

“Outside” tells the story of Detective Professor Nathan Adler, an investigator for the “Art-Crime” division of a corporation funded by “Arts Protectorate of London”; his current case involves an “art-murder” of a 14-year-old girl. The concept unveils in Bowie’s typically cryptic, often impenetrable fashion. In the past, his story lines may have been impossible to follow, but his individual songs—“Space Oddity,” “Suffragette City,” “Jean Genie,” “Rebel Rebel,” “Young Americans”—always broke through. But Bowie wandered away from catchy songs some 15 years ago, so it was no surprise when the meandering, plodding stage arrangements of Outside grew tedious.

Perhaps Bowie should be commended for refusing to cannibalize his past in the wake of bloodsucking blockbuster tours by The Rolling Stones and others. But late in the concert he did dip into his older works, bringing out “Andy Warhol,” “The Man Who Sold the World” and “Under Pressure” (performed as a duet with bassist Gail Ann Dorsey). The choices seemed oddly self-promoting—Bowie plays Warhol in an upcoming movie, and, relatively recently, Nirvana revived “The Man Who Sold the World.” The stiff arrangements sapped the songs of any nostalgia or energy—the once acoustic “Warhol” was turned into a mechanical bit similar to “TVC15.” Any of Bowie’s primal, chordal blasts from the past would have served him better in giving the show a needed jolt of power and recognition.

Near the end of the show, Bowie attempted to instill some energy into a flagging performance by shadow-boxing at the microphone. He looked every bit of his 48 years. Like an aging, tired former champ who tries to show he has some punch left by sparring alone beyond the reach of his opponent, the display underscored that the singer no longer has the stamina or creative spark to change the world. A night that started out with the promise of renewal and a return to past glories had faded into a sad, inferior display. At show’s end, a line from “Heart’s Filthy Lesson” reverberated through the dazed, disappointed crowd: “I think I’ve lost my way.”