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.