You know, religion has never really suited me. I was raised by Southern Baptists, and educated by Catholic nuns. I\'ve worked for Jews, and hung out with a kid who thought he was an uber-Muslim. I\'d even say I\'ve slept with a dark-haired Devil worshipper, but that\'s just daydreams and hand cream, if ya know what I mean. Anyway, I\'ve never felt close to any form of religion, but I had one of the more religious experiences of my life this past Saturday, when I saw Medeski, Martin and Wood at the Newport Music Hall.

Day One: Oh my God, it\'s crotch rock. Some buncha New Zealand crazies with Ramone-esque names, like \"Dolf de Datsun\", are trying to bring back my ultimate guilty pleasure genre of music. No! Shouldn\'t hair band fanaticism fade by this point in my life? Damn! Don\'t give in!
Day Two: Well, they are pretty rockin\'. Even my friend Schmally is diggin\' it, and he isn\'t a metal case. Maybe it isn\'t my small-town roots and former mall bangs leading me astray. These kiddos could be genuinely decent to listen to.

The Polyphonic Spree (TPS) on disc sounds like Roger Water\'s-era Pink Floyd in a bus wreck with Sgt. Pepper\'s-era Beatles. A self-proclaimed \"choral symphonic pop band\", TPS weaves sprawling landscapes of voices with psychedelic swirls of French horn and guitar. The reality of the band is far more terrifying: TPS is a group of 23+ band/cult members who all dress in long white robes, don\'t title their songs, and are released by Good Records (\"a division of the Good Umbrella\", whatever that is).

When the lights go down in Promowest Pavilion on Sunday, April 27th, the crowd better have spent the day absolving their sins. Ministry kills more people in rehearsal than Great White could at a stadium show! Savage beats will mow down the old, while massive guitar riffs crush small children. When Al Jourgensen\'s voice cuts through your soul like a razorblade, it will be too late to pray for absolution. Ministry takes no prisoners! If you leave your girlfriend at home while you go to the show, Ministry will have impregnated her by the time you get back,..

Man, forget about Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, and Led Zeppelin! Kings of Leon (KOL) are the new, authentic legends of rock \'n\' roll! And their 5-song EP, Holy Roller Novocaine (RCA Records), only proves what I\'m saying! The Followill boys-- Jared, Matthew, Nathan, and Caleb-- come together and form what has to be the most innovative band of this sorta-new century. From the rustic, pan-fried, down-home guitar licks, to the sensually melodic vocals, this album is a porch swing lover holding your hand one minute, and a corner-booth poet fingering your honey pot the next.

Hey there, little patriots! It’s war time! So, while el Presidente and his Klan of Homeland Security are whipping up a whole new batch of injustices for us to get hot-pissed about, let’s spend some time with the injustices that were around before we started bombing the hell out of Earth! And let’s spend that time musically, with the infamous U.S. Bombs. Talk about angry. These cats are that, and then some. Plus, they’re informed about world events, so they don’t just sound like a bunch of whiny 16-year-old kids who think Croatia was a bird on Mister Rogers\' Neighborhood.

Last week, Wayne and I went to see the new Jason Lee film, Dreamcatcher. It\'s the latest film to be adapted from a Stephen King novel, and with the great Lawrence Kasdan behind the camera, how could one go wrong? Everything started fine. We got to the theater early and found great seats. Wayne helped himself to some of AMC\'s finest hot dogs, and even managed to sneak two Heinekens into the theater. Things were going great. The theater filled up just before the movie started, and the audience was settling in. As the lights dimmed, Wayne farted.

BIRDDOG, Songs From Willipa Bay
VISIT BIRDDOG HERE.

\"Damn. I\'m broke. My feet hurt. (Inside the mind of a carjacker.) And that bitch is slippin. It makes me wanna,.. creep. It makes me wanna,.. creep.\"
- Ice Cube, \"Down For Whatever\"

The other night I was in the head when the band started playing a Pixies’ song that was practically my high school theme song. I quickly abandoned the man in the wheelchair who was vomiting violently, and rushed through the mass of people to see if, collectively, we could find our minds. The set ended with one tasteful encore, which finished with the only cover of the night, a version of Tom Waits’ “Black Rider”. What fell in-between was almost two hours of exquisitely crafted melodies, delightful, off-kilter rhythms, and sweet American rock.