When Johnny Cash gave mainstream country the finger in Billboard I felt vindicated. However, that crappy McCountry is still running rampant. To quote Hank Williams III, country music today has lost its O. I suppose that's true for most genres; the mainstream we're all getting shoved down our throats just isn't any good, or representative of a genre as a whole. But back to country - and the middle finger. 40 Rod Lightning played one and gave the other just the way I like it Friday night at Dubland Underground, a cool downstairs joint with a quasi-Scorgies feel in a neighborhood that is essentially in an original live music vacuum. I'd never seen a whole set from these guys. They plowed through a real strong set of insurgent country. And as the booze took hold and loosened them up a bit, they hit a nice stride that had the crowd hooked. Ninety minutes later and with little blood left in their whiskey stream, the band hillbilly'd "The Ace Of Spades" as if it had been a country tune all along.

Went to Chamber Music Rochester's "The French School: Quartos Plays Faure and Ravel" at The Memorial Art Gallery Sunday night. The opening number was Faure's "Dolly Sweet" - a piece written for four hands (that's 20 fingers) that featured pianists Michael Landrum and Joseph Werner. The two gentlemen were brilliantly in sync, but I gotta say I can't relax when the execution is so precarious; just one slip and the whole thing could wipe out. It's kinda like waiting for the inevitable wreck at NASCAR. Landrum and Werner kept it precise and kept the rubber side down with quite a bit of feeling, addressing each of the six movements with a lilting grace and flow.

Quartos followed with a spirited take on Ravel's "String Quartet In F Major." The problem I have at these classical events is I read the program before the show, so I knew Ravel was a bit of an upstart or the imagery behind Faure's work. When listening, I hear and identify these things. But I wonder if I hadn't peeked before, how would the music have struck me?

I've switched from Nu-Nile to Murray's Beeswax as the choice of goo for my 'do, but the shit is still flammable. So I'm always a little wary of walking into churches. But Tuesday afternoon I popped over to the Downtown United Presbyterian Church where D-Drive was filming a video (a little music-based vignette like they used to show on MTV, in case you're too young to remember) for the song "Pray For Tomorrow" off the band's latest, "Straight Up The Middle." Principle shooting had wrapped up and the band was focusing on close-ups. It was cool to see singer Phil Naro's professionalism, as he lip-synched with genuine, outward passion as if he were singing in Wembley. Those dry ice machines can make the ascent to the altar slipperier and even more precarious. My head began to smolder and I had to split....

...And get ready for one of the best punk rock shows I've seen in years, since one of the multiple mid-80's Ramones shows at Idols where I used to lose my mind. The U.S. Bombs' touring mates, Far From Finished, were far from finished as I made the scene. I knew nothing about them, really - neither did many of the people in the packed house - but the band's speed and chops made a lot of friends fast. The one-and-a half armed singer led the charge, working the crowd up.

The idiot pit had already started early to the piped in Deep Purple, and by the time The Bombs took the stage, the entire room exploded and stayed exploded for over an hour. It was no place for a lady - or 41-year-old music critics (we're both fragile) - so I dug the proceedings from the safety of the sound booth, which swayed and shook with blows from flying bodies. The band was relentless, with virtually no banter or segues. Frontman Duane Peters looked ragged and mean like a dockworker from the Bowery, and the line between band and crowd dissolved in a haze of sweat and beer. The band played great and sloppy tight.

This is exactly the type of energy and abandon rock 'n' roll once preached and practiced. The band ended as hard and fast as it started. I'm still jacked.

Click through to the main article for photos of the US Bombs concert.

When last we spoke, I was pulling my Luddite ass out of analogue quicksand with the iPod preserver my wife threw me for Xmas. I'm in the midst of a move and have become painfully aware of my music collection's size and weight. So the convenience of potentially putting it all in something the size of a deck of cards is pretty cool. But let me tell you about the shuffle...

This is feature surpasses the hairpin turns and segues in my head. Its apparent randomness has created some of the most eclectic and cool sets of music that create an entirely new - albeit sometimes abstract - perspective on music by thrusting it into entirely different contexts.

I was at the gym yesterday, where typically a little Motorhead for the lifting, some Paladins for the cardio, and some Miles Davis for the cool down worked just fine. But this time the shuffle feature and the anticipation of what could possibly come next wore me out wonderfully. I got re-introduced to some old favorites, rarely spun cuts, and a whole lotta music refined and reiterated. It sounded like this:

The Mooney Suzuki

The Velvet Undergound

Tenderloin

Leonard Cohen

Reverend Horton Heat

The Bell Rays

Zeke

Dexter Gordon

Jon Spencer Blues Explosion

Tom Waits

Southern Culture On The Skids

David Bowie

Ike and Tina Turner

Henry Mancini

The Stooges

And that's just for starters. Top that! What's in your random list?

About 2000 LPs, 4000 CDs, 1000 45s, and all my wife's $&*#@ shoes... that's why I'm walking this way. I think I'm even typing with a limp. It's also why I missed Bill Kirchen's show Friday night with the Hi-Risers at the German House. But I made it out Saturday night with the help of a couple Vicodin.

Heavy Kevvy's annual Valentines Day Massacre is whole a lot of fun, overflowing with guilty pleasures, mostly in the songs the bands chose to cover. Old Boy gave WHAM!'s "Careless Whisper" the Massey-Ferguson mash-up. And Eddie Nebula and The Plague nailed a couple of mid-80's classics. It sounded like they had actually practiced playing "My Sharona." They brought up Jen Santoro without her Cherry Gun, but with her cathedral-strength pipes to hit the high notes on "Livin' On A Prayer." There are very few high notes Eddie can't hit, including a few you've gotta be a dog to hear. But when the song modulated, Santoro stepped in so he wouldn't blow a gasket. The Plague is one of my favorite bands but I still hate Bon Jovi.

Hit the German House Theatre later the same night to catch Boston's Zili Misik banging out all tropical and exuberant. These eight women rocked the joint with a jazzy horn attack, gorgeous multiple layered harmonies, and drums that offered some Caribbean relief. It was joyous, infectious, bodacious, and gone.

Black August closed the night and brought the soul, baby. My God, this band writes great songs. Guitarist Denise Reese sent notes slithering through the band's wall of soul. Beneath hair that made Foxy Brown's look like a crew cut (Pam Grier's Foxy, not the imprisoned female rapper), Danielle Ponder sang beautifully with a commanding, demanding force. This band is gonna be heard.

New chick on the scene: City Newspaper's very own Jen Graney's soft contralto cut through the caffeinated bizz-buzz at Boulder Coffee when she warmed the stage for big boss man El Destructo. Her songs were riveting and dark, like Mazzy Star without the reverb (or the heroin) or Velvet Underground pal Nico without the atonality (or the heroin).

Skipped the bean scene for some High Fidelity, where The Meddling Kids rocked the joint as a trio with one man down from kennel cough. The girls down front dig it tight, bright, crunchy, and loud. So do I.

The Dynamics were wailin' away on Jimmy Reed's "Big Boss Man" as I strolled through the Dinosaur's doors. These guys sound fine, and rock that Texas back beat like the T-Bird's used to when they were "Butt Rockin.'" Funny; I stopped back for some more BBQ Saturday as Joe Beard was playing "Big Boss Man" too.

But the big, big boss man was The Reverend Peyton, who positively slayed the Flogging Molly crowd with his Big Damn Band. Irish show openers The Mighty Stef emerged from a Nick Cave wailing mid-tempo, minor, and cool. And of course Flogging Molly blew Water Street Music Hall's lid off, with homeboy Dennis Casey a daddy once again with the birth of his son a mere day before. FM showed off some fresh material that seemed a little less Celtic and a little more rock. It was sharp and punchy, and just as frenzied; a welcome addition to the band's tradition.

But like I was saying: Reverend Peyton, man. It was so gratifying to hear kids go berserk for some down-home country blues and boogie. Peyton slid and slapped his old rusty dobro like a maniac, while his wife bashed her washboard, and his little bother beat the bucket. They call the man Reverend, and his work on stage that night was pure secular sanctification, a clarion classification of red-blooded blues roots that will surely put the names of Furry Lewis, Charlie Patton, and Reverend Peyton in the crowds' heads, and hopefully in their emaciated iPods. Yeoww.