Legendary UK punks The Subhumans tore up The Club @ Water Street Wednesday, September 26, with a loud, fast, sweaty set. All the haircuts were there. The sound was crisp and in your face, and though "Mickey Mouse Is Dead" didn't get played (dammit) the show was great. Lead singer Dick paced, raged, seethed, and shouted looking like he had taken a coupla laps in a Maytag. But I gotta tell ya, show openers World/Inferno Friendship Society were absolutely brilliant. It was a full-blown punk rock cabaret with multiple percussionists, marimba, piano, and horns, along with the more conventional rock utensils. Singer/ringleader Jack Terricloth barked and raved like a shroud tailor on a meth jag. The band mixed klezmer, vaudeville, apocalyptic jazz, and lyrical madness a la Waits. It was really, really cool and not unlike our own Lobster Quadrille.

Southern Culture On The Skids played all its hits (including a handful off the brilliant new "Countrypolitan Favorites") for the kids packed like lemmings into the shiny Bug Jar Thursday night. Guitarist Rick Miller isn't really an innovator, but more of a perpetuator. He mixes every guitar style and tone I love out of old off-brand guitars and an unassuming pile of junk, cords, and stomp boxes. The man puts the bang and clang back in twang. And let's not forget the evening's visual highlight: The Isotopes' Busty Sinclair just a twistin' and gyratin' while distributing delicious fried chicken to the hungry and the faithful. These are two of my favorite things. Well three if you count each... well... never mind.

In the never-ending battle to get people into clubs before midnight, The Atomic Swindlers played a 7 p.m. show last Friday at High Fidelity. But alas, it was a little to close to dinner. Despite the light crowd and the lingering daylight, the band delivered its trademark arena sound all big and beautiful. There's two more of my favorite things.

Despite the reference to slick noir lore, The Black Dahlia Murder looked more like a bunch of blue-collar dudes who love pizza. Last night the band opened for Cannibal Corpse and pummeled Water Street Music Hall with a lot of double-kick as a foundation, but broke into cool grooves at least once a song either as a respite or a hook. The stage show was non-existent (no pretense, just rock) with singer Trevor Strnad stomping around the stage howling, fist-pumping, and throwing his arms in the air like a ref confirming a field goal.

Cannibal Corpse followed with its legendary from-the-bowels-of-hell tone and relentless pounding. The synchronized head banging was full-on Broadway. The vocals were buried and sounded more like a long, drawn out dry heave, but such is the style these days. The mosh pit was packed with more sweaty, shirtless dudes than a Roman bathhouse, but masculinity prevailed in a hail of elbows and knuckles. Plenty of heavy out there folks, but none heavier than these guys.

Despite the reference to slick noir lore, in their October 2 performance at Water Street Music Hall, The Black Dahlia Murder looked more like a bunch of blue-collar dudes who love pizza. The band opened for Cannibal Corpse and pummeled Water Street with a lot of double-kick as a foundation, but broke into cool grooves at least once a song, either as a respite or a hook. The stage show was non-existent (no pretense, just rock) with singer Trevor Strnad stomping around the stage howling, fist-pumping, and throwing his arms in the air like a ref confirming a field goal.

Cannibal Corpse followed, with its legendary, from-the-bowels-of-hell tone and relentless pounding. The synchronized head banging was full-on Broadway. The vocals were buried and sounded more like a long, drawn-out dry heave, but such is the style these days. The mosh pit was packed with more sweaty, shirtless dudes than a Roman bathhouse, but machismo prevailed in a hail of elbows and knuckles. Plenty of heavy out there folks, but none heavier than these guys.

Which leads me to Part II of my volume talk, kids. Neil Young once said something about rock guitar needing to be loud enough as to feel it move the air around you. Rust never sleeps, but neither does tinnitus. I've always viewed the rock spectacle as antler polishing or preening: a mating ritual. But if the faithful flee in pain, all is for naught. Maybe it's not cool to slag the sound at these shows, but let's be honest: 75 per cent of the shows I've scene this year have been too loud, too distorted, and too incoherent. Yes, this works for Cannibal Corpse. (Who among us has the stomach for those lyrics anyway?) But who can honestly say Government Mule's Harro East show this summer didn't sound like shit?

Water Street's October 1 show with Brooklyn's The Honorary Title is another story. These guys blend Chris Isaac melancholy with U2 largess - real easy to overdo in the volume department. But the band's reserve and dynamics produced music that was big and bold. And it was decipherable - unlike the rest of the bill, which felt the need to floor it. Volume needs finesse, baby.

Alan Freed, where are ya, baby? Sure, payola killed the Moondog, but now all that ill-gotten lettuce is taking a detour from fat-cat pockets to help promote Rochester music. With money from the New York State Music Fund, WXXI began shooting its live concert/interview show, "On Stage" earlier this year. The fund was set up by the Attorney General's Office from fines imposed on various radio stations caught doing the pay-for-play mambo.

In the spirit of "Austin City Limits," "On Stage" offers an intimate, live performance with Rochester bands from a wide variety of genres. Show host Julia Figueras' brief, between-set interviews give the musicians a platform to explore and explain further, thus giving the audience a deeper appreciation and understanding of the music. This season's final episode with The Hi-Risers was taped last night and was absolutely brilliant.

What can you say about straight-ahead, three-chord, 4/4 rock 'n' roll? Nobody does it better than The Hi-Risers. For those of us nasty, greasy types, the band's wholesome politeness and charm may be a little off-putting; I mean, they're just such genuinely nice guys. However, the way all three brandish their instruments is nothing short of deadly. Greg Townson is the king of the pop song as the entire in-studio audience proved, singing along to everything from "She'll Be My Ruin" to "Wild Romance" to "One Note Joe" where Townson pulled off a one-note guitar solo with more panache and style than most cats get with a furious cascade. Drummer Jay Smay played unmasked and as snappy as his suit. This man drives the band and gives it its shake appeal. And bassist Todd Bradley left his vocal chords in the basement where they boomed on excellent takes on "18 Wheels Of Love" and "Johnny, Jim, And Jack."

The crowd howled, sang along, and unsuccessfully resisted the urge to cut some rug. This is a great band. But like so many great bands in so many great cities, if the great media ain't behind 'em, ain't nobody gonna know about 'em. Hell, I'm doing the best I can. And so is WXXI. My hat's off to 'em.

--- Frank De Blase

There's a fine line between road fatigue and nonchalance. Peter Karp's camper was parked outside the Dinosaur BBQ Wednesday night, October 17, and Karp emerged looking like he just woke up. And his opening number took on the feel of a sleepy slumber exit as he gently woke the audience with his red guitar alarm clock. Starting plaintive and sweet, Karp intoned and slid wearily, building with each measure. As the clouds began to scatter and the rest of the band kicked in, he had everyone feeling good. I know a lot of bands like to hit on all eight right outta the gate, but Karp's haphazard slow wind to a bluesy grind was much more effective. He's a Nashville cat, no lie, but there is so much more brewing that I'm sure he dreams up in pre-gig parking lot snoozes.

Crashed the opening for "The Tease" - 600 pics of swivelin' buxotics and gyratin' exotics from burlesque's golden days at the Palace Theatre in Buffalo - at the George Eastman House. A slick jazz combo led by Mint Jam's Gabe Condon swung as the hoi polloi swilled sangria. The burlesque scene here in Rochester is lean but lovely; what we lack in quantity we've got in quality. Take one Miss Holly Shock, who paraded about the affair in red chiffon and a bustier. There was a gaggle of lovely gals that graced the walls but Shock was the only one we could ogle in all three dimensions. Ooo-la-la.

The Sholanda Simpson memorial show Saturday at the Bug Jar was a sweaty, packed affair led by her band, the Cheetah Whores. I haven't seen a band maintain this level of drunken joy, sadness, soul, and swagger - in heels - in a long time. At the heart of the allure are the songs. The Cheetah Whores are writing nasty little r&b nuggets reminiscent of an era when Ike and Tina were still doing blow and exchanging blows. Taking on the air of a free-for-all with the shake of extra tambourines and hands in the air, this was a fitting send-off for any rock 'n' roller.

Two doses of Oklahoma in two days has got me feelin' OK. Sporting a slightly more Western motif than his standard day-glow Detroit duds, Watermelon Slim and his band, The Workers, brought the blues and boogie to the Dinosaur stage Wednesday night, October 24. It was Slim's third trip here and the word is getting out. I'm warning you now, next time this cat comes to town there will be no room to move. With his guitar prostrate on a sort of altar cluttered with harmonicas, various old medicine bottles (used as slides), and assorted bits of mojo, Slim got to work. His voice was rich and powerful with phrasing akin to those late-night voices that crackle and haunt CBs on the Interstate. The Workers pounded as Slim howled about low-down women and his lonely life on the road, first as a trucker and now as a musician. You just gotta see these guys. Just tell 'em Large Marge sent ya.

Legendary rockabilly filly Wanda Jackson rocked the German House Theatre Thursday night with her back-up band, The Lustre Kings from Albany. And everybody knows I'm kinda fond'a Wanda.

Led into big bop battle by the long, tall Mark Gamsjager and his big guitar, The Lustre Kings warmed up for her majesty with some authentic slap, bang, and twang.

Jackson's voice is still that sweet blend of coquettish coo and sex-kitten snarl. At 70 years old she still has a firm grasp of rock 'n' roll's underlying seduction. She ripped through ultra-fine takes of everything I hoped to hear, like "Fujiyama Mama," "Funnel Of Love," and even her takes on some of The King's Sun Records material. She proved she's still the queen of rockabilly.

Despite stepping all over Steppenwolf and doing the worst version of "Born To Be Wild" ever, The UV Rays played a fun and fast set at the Bug Jar Saturday night, warming up for Australian punkers The Saints. Lone remaining Saint Chris Bailey looked a little worse for wear but delivered a set filled with the type of rock 'n' roll that got labeled punk in the late 70's for two reasons: 1) its purveyors were grubby, greasy, and somewhat limited in their playing ability; 2) the mainstream had lost sight of rock 'n' roll and its message and didn't recognize it anymore. Frankly, I prefer not to call it anything, and just listen.