Roger Kuhn was righteously perched on the Boulder stage Saturday night beneath the shade of his summer straw. With one arm around my squeeze and the other around some steamin' blood of the bean, the cannoli in front of me didn't stand a chance. It was perfect; there was nowhere else I wanted to be. The cannoli vanished quickly but Kuhn's blues stuck. I can still hear 'em - the well-mannered holler, the one man call and response, the jingle jangle of his tambourined ankle, and the rhythmic abuse his guitar endured. And the man's banter is as engaging as his folk blues; a rapid-fire repartee regaling all us rubes of his blue collar plight, and the importance of standing up to be counted and heard. The cat gets a little "Blonde on Blonde" here and there, and when the lightning strikes it's all Hopkins, Jack.

Over to Richmond's to see Wales Road rock the joint as if it were Shea Stadium. Got to hear Tommy Wales pull out some clean licks from what is typically a rather heavy arsenal. The trio is blues-based metal with a Christian frosting. And though that may not ring true with the heathens, that big red guitar sure does.

Bug Jar's Bobby T ballparks it between 40 and 60 when pressed for his age, so a few of us were fixin' to take him out back to saw him in half and count the rings when The Gifted Children hit the bandstand. Aaron Bouche, aka Bald Guy, must love those spacey atmospheric guitar players. That, or he brings it out of them somehow. Bouche metered strong and steady as the band revved up and back and forth'd with an indie rock tease.

Eddie Nebula and the Plague followed, kicking off the set with an angry, fast take of "Piss On The Roses." Nebula made it all right with a Moserite and the crowd ate it up except for a few women I saw in back. I think they were ball players. I didn't see any uniforms but a couple of them had baseball bats. They seemed real eager to meet Ed...

Buddhahood shows are consistently such off-the-hook fun, you just kinda take it for granted. The horn- and drum-driven polyrhythmic glee winds higher and tighter as the dance floor takes on a sort of joyous frustration; the people aren't just dancing out there, they're trying to fly. Guitarist/singer Tony Cavagnaro always waved the baton of this world beat parade; a reggae ringleader, the eye of the happy hippy hurricane.

Thursday night at the Dinosaur was no different. The brass blasted, the rhythm section laid down the funk trench, and the crowd danced like bumper cars at a square dance. It wasn't going to be particularly magical, it was just another fantastic Buddhahood boogaloo.

Except now it is magical: Thursday was Cavagnaro's last show. He was killed in a one-car accident on his way to a gig Friday night. He was 41.

The band's joy, drive, and vision were all borne of this big, bearded, jovial cat's passion. He was an incredible guitar player who could have bragged if he wanted, but he was as humble as he was talented. He was first and foremost a rock guitar player, hitting the scene for years with The Urban Squirrels, The Mysterious Blues Band, Rub The Buddha, and of course, The Buddhahood.

You could call Cavagnaro a full-blown hippie in the classic sense. And yet you put those drums beneath his humor and chops and nobody - nobody - was gonna be sitting still. And with little or no border between band and crowd, everyone in the place was in The Buddhahood.

It was like that last Thursday night. Dr. Bob and I strolled into the joint and got sucked into the zydeco riptide. Bob picked up a shaker and I brandished a mallet and took to beating an African drum loudly. If I'd have smiled any wider my skull would have fallen out of my mouth. I got a wink and a nod of approval from Cavagnaro that I can still see when I close my eyes. How ironic that my first time playing with these gifted souls would be his last. I will cherish that moment forever. So long, big daddy.

Despite all the joy it professes, Christian church music is about as uplifting as wet cardboard. And the comatose recitation of prayers - you expect God to hear that? Well, that all changed last Thursday at Third Presbyterian Church as we all bid farewell to The Buddhahood's Tony Cavagnaro. It was a solemn affair, but the happiness and promise of his music bubbled beneath. The ceremony ended and The Buddhahood marched down the aisle like a Big Easy second line. The entire congregation followed out in a makeshift parade that erupted into dance spilling into the street and adjacent parking lot. The horns were blown and the drums beaten with the band's fervent love for its departed leader. And I'm sure God - wherever she is - heard it loud and clear.

Not to worry, the second shift of fresh new rock 'n' rollers is on deck. Friday night was Round 2 of Water Street Music Hall's high school battle of the bands. Last week's City cover boys, Preemptive Strike, won by a landslide. Kids at these shows are still a little new to the rock show protocol, so whatever reaction a band gets is perhaps a little more genuine. Preemptive Strike drove 'em nuts with simple, catchy, three-chord punk rock. Other bands rocked hard and genuine for the most part, with a lot of what I guess you could call "scream-o" dominating the show. My one tip for these bands: don't tell crowds what to do. Don't try and orchestrate mosh pits. This is supposed to happen on its own, based on the power of the music. You want the crowd to go bananas? Earn it, motherf**ker.

It's ironic to think anyone in The Quitters would actually quit, but Dave Snyder's gone. I saw the new three-piece version at The Bug Jar Saturday and must say this band's songs are so well written that everyone could quit and it would still sound good.

Then Uncle Scratch's Gospel Revival holy-rolled in from Cleveland and rocked pentacostaly lo-fi. Songs about getting kicked in the nuts by Jesus and the handling of snakes onstage made this a great show for the whole family. I'm bringing Mom next time.

Sometimes volume actually works. Generally in live rock 'n' roll, it winds up as an excuse, an over-compensation, something adhered to as protocol. Kids grow up being told rock 'n' roll must be loud. Very few artists, however, embrace the volume as a tool along with the beat, the melody, the lyrics, and the overall groove.

Enter Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, sprung from the brilliant wreckage of The Brian Jonestown Massacre.

Last night at Water Street Music Hall, the band's wall of volume was as integral to the sound as the psychedelic wash and mesmerizing beat. Roughly 300 people dug and danced as the band swung, threatening to hypnotize. The stage setup looked like a prison break in the fog, and the black-clad band stood relatively motionless. But at the heart of this aural painting and hep-cat swagger, was pure rock 'n' roll: the kind the you can feel, with its requisite, appropriate, gorgeous volume.

Sometimes volume actually works. Generally in live rock 'n' roll it winds up as an excuse, an over-compensation, something adhered to as protocol. Kids grow up being told rock 'n' roll must be loud. Very few artists, however, embrace the volume as a tool along with the beat, the melody, the lyrics, and the overall groove.

Enter Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, sprung from the brilliant wreckage of The Brian Jonestown Massacre.

Last week the band's wall of volume was as integral to the sound as the psychedelic wash and mesmerizing beat. Roughly 300 people dug and danced in Water Street Music Hall as the band swung, threatening to hypnotize. The stage set-up looked like a prison break in the fog with the black-clad band standing cool and keen. But at the heart of this aural painting and hep cat swagger was pure rock 'n' roll, the kind you can feel with its requisite, appropriate, gorgeous volume. Toin it up.

John Cole ain't particularly loud, but those pipes are big, man - rich and creamy, too. And the way he lets his baritone crack, it's as if tears could sing. Yeah, Cole and his band boogied with plenty of opportunities to cut some rug Friday night at the Dinosaur, but it was generally a cheek-to-cheek affair. I don't have a name for it yet, but the new dance I saw centered around a move where your partner gyrates around what would be your lap if you were sitting down, a kind of low-gear lambada. It's the kind of slow dance that serves as a prelude to the inevitable passion brought on by blues, barbeque, and cheap aftershave. Yup, the weekend trifecta: barbequed, blued, and screwed.

The extra late night jazz cats in The Quinn Lawrence Trio were parked at the south end of the Public Market during Artists Row Sunday afternoon. I swear to God they were riffin' on Monk's "Stuffy Turkey," which incidentally was slithering out of my dash as I arrived. The trio's late-night, blue-note cool went head to head with the sun and won.