There’s no ticket from this show to scan; I was just one of the guys on the guest list. Turns out that when this band came to the Iron Horse in Northampton, Mass., touring off their album Kent, me and my sidekick Jack—the funk-loving, fun-loving concert pallie who lived downstairs from me in the godforsaken burg of Rowley, Mass.—didn’t have to elbow through a mass of devotees at the club to find a seat: It was literally me, Jack, a couple other people, and some barflies who probably didn’t have to pay a cover to see the gig.

But this group threw down some of the most innovative funk rock this side of the Average White Band: Hailing from Memphis, Big Ass Truck jammed hard, with a DJ in tow punching in samples and scratching records to great rhythmic effect. Their groove and stage vibe looked a lot like this rendition of “Theem From,” one of Kent’s cuts:

There is little Google-able history on this band, so I throw it to the hardcore Big Ass Historians who may read this: Can you find the actual date and set list for this gig? The total lack of information seems to be woven into the history of this band, which at the time was signed to the Boston-based label Upstart, Rounder Records’ attempt to expand its roster beyond dusty old folk and blues artists—and their finite audiences.

After Upstart failed to take them to the heights of national popularity one would expect after investing the time, money, and energy into the project, the members moved on in 2001 and joined various different bands such as Robby Grant’s Vending Machine or, in the case of guitarist and songwriter Steve Selvidge, a solo career. He’s still making some beautifully grungy, raw stuff with a tablespoon of soul mixed in to great effect; check out his cover of the Beatles’ “She Said She Said” posted at his MySpace page.

But for that one night, Big Ass Truck was one hardworking group drawn to the backwoods of west-central Massachusetts, far from Memphis, where no one knew about them except a few folks connected to Upstart and its promotional efforts.

Many bands pack up when they see an empty club, or phone in a halfhearted set and bail early. Not these guys. They were loud, obnoxious, used all the wattage and samples they brought with ‘em in the van, and sweated their backsides off. Jack and I watched in slack-jawed disbelief at the awesome funk force and power displayed in songs like “Li’l Tico” and “I’m a Ram,” it was as if they were putting on a show just for us. They were crisp, well-rehearsed, and took this gig more seriously than we deserved.

Jack bought the T-shirt, I’ve kept the CDs. To this day, I mourn the passing of Big Ass Truck, and from the tenor of their words on MySpace, (”Seriously, we haven’t been a band since 2001. We can’t help you with trading shows, or anything else like that. Have a great day!”) I’m not the only one.

“That guy,” my wife Kate said of Trent Reznor on the way home from this show in one of the most memorable one-line concert reviews I’ve ever heard or read, “is a grease spot on the windshield of rock and roll.”

She was there to see Bowie, obviously.

This show, like David Bowie, is an enigma wrapped in a conundrum wrapped in a rid–no, wrapped in a rancid corn dog. In my mind he is a great artist and a creative force, a visionary who understands how music works (composing, performing and arranging) on a level most other pop stars just can’t. Prince and Paul McCartney and Beck are much like Bowie in this regard; Britney Spears needs to hire 15 people to do the tasks Bowie can accomplish all by himself, when he feels like it.

Bowie’s also a great collaborator, having worked with everyone from Jagger to Iggy to Lou Reed to Luther Vandross to Stevie Ray Vaughan to…Trent Reznor. He understands how to make the sum greater than its parts, musically. He also knows how to glom on to the coolest music of the moment, which in the mid-1990s was….wait for it…industrial and its son, post-industrial waste.

And, sadly, he’s also had his musical slumps, like the great Derek Jeter and his 0-for-32 a few years ago. After the fumes of the brilliant Let’s Dance gave way to clunkers like Tonight and Never Let Me Down, Bowie dusted off his crap machine, recycled some more spineless pop junk, and tried to make a silk purse out of sow’s ear with some upbeat soulful jazz arrangements and noisy rhythm, putting together his Black Tie White Noise CD. Its hit single, “Jump They Say,” showed a little promise (no video embedding, just linking, the Bowie Marketing Machine decree-eth).

Then came 1. Outside, whatever the heck that was (for the record, a concept album rumored to be the first in a trilogy but so half-baked that Bowie’s never recorded the second or third part). Funky, here and there, but it sounded like warmed-over Happy Mondays or bad jungle techno in too many spots, with some jazz sounds tossed in here and there so’s we can tell it’s sophisticated.

So we knew a new Bowie tour would probably be a mixed bag, but all would be forgiven if he tossed out some Tin Machine or some of his edgier stuff like “Rebel Rebel” or even “Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps).” Bowie, who could coolly charm the pants off Marian the Librarian, sold his new record well in press and on-air interviews. So yes, we said, sign us up for the $36.75 tickets to see the Bowie/NIN show at Great Woods.

Intriguing! And if NIN stinks, Bowie will be good, right? We only had to burn half a vacation day each to get down to Great Woods, which is…in the middle of nowhere, requiring a two-hour battle through Boston’s infamous rush hour to get there.

Little did we know we were in for a post-music show taken straight out of a post-apocalyptic Mad Max movie. First off, Great Woods (since renamed Tweeter Center and then the Comcast Center) had just been savaged by losers attending the previous Lollapalooza. All the nice foliage that we’d known at the venue was gone, used in bonfires, apparently. In its place? Sand. Everywhere.

It was hot. Really hot. We were not rich enough to get inside the amphitheater; our tickets got us as far as the cusp, under the flat-screens that surround it. We could, technically, see the musicians, but it was more like watching the Red Sox at a sports bar than actually being at the game. Or on a parched desert with the threat of rogue motorcycle gangs, er, I mean Nine Inch Nails fans, coming after you.

Wikipedia says NIN always came on first during this tour. Wrong. Bowie opened this show and NIN closed it. Bowie, who we’d thought could put on a good show, played about 12 songs we’ver never heard except “Jump They Say” and “Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps).” There might have been one of his better cuts wedged in there (a set list here says he slipped in “The Man Who Sold the World,” “Andy Warhol,” and “Joe The Lion,” which I should have picked out), but the light-jazz sound and his suited cabaret singer persona (instead of the Thin White Duke, we’ll call this incarnation Pale Sammy Davis) just muttered through largely same-sounding songs that would have made Kenny G proud.

If Wikipedia is right with this particular detail, Boston guitarist (and Tin Machine bandmate) Reeves Gabrels was manning the axe. I loved Tin Machine but if he was there, he left no impression.

For a few wonderfully inventive songs, there was the best act-to-act transition I’ve seen: One Bowie band member left, one NIN guy came on per tune. After a while it was Bowie in leather jacket (when did he lose that awful suit?), Reznor, and NIN. The music never stopped. To me, that was the pinnacle of concert planning and respect for the fans who came out. Nice!

Alas, after that, was Nine Inch Nails. They’re beloved, Trent Reznor Twitters his fingers off, and because I’m about to type what I am, no doubt Popdose’s comment servers will be overwhelmed with new notions about my mother and extended family (as we’ve seen before when anyone deigns to disagree with the whole online NIN sycophant-o-sphere): But as your loyal Popdose Mojo, I cannot lie.

I’ve had a root canal. One. I hope to never have one again. You see, they drill through your teeth and…well let’s just say there are many moments during root canal–which involves hours in an endodontist’s chair–where your entire skull is vibrated with odd dental instruments bumping up against your jawbone. This effect, I know firsthand, anesthetics can’t make less troublesome.

In that respect, NIN was pretty much like root canal. In no way was it pleasant, although there were a couple cathartic moments that I thought were less crappy than others. Needless to say, I will not go through that elective concert procedure ever again.

I’m a college student in an arena full of fresh-faced tweens and teens, all hopped up on free candy and wholesome vibes, and we’re awaiting an appearance by one of rock’s most beloved good-time bands – the Prefab Four! So why in heaven’s name am I leaning over a guardrail, screaming the names of the Seven Deadly Sins into the din?

First things first. My friend Sam and I were just looking for a little mindless diversion on that November Sunday – privileged with the rare use of an automobile and searching the Chicago Tribune’s weekend section for someplace to drive it. When we saw the listing, buried in minuscule type, it seemed too good to be true – a concert at the Rosemont Horizon featuring the reunited Monkees, the pretty dude from Herman’s Hermits, and a couple other ’60s has-beens, and tickets were only $10! The 5 p.m. start time seemed a bit suspicious – did the Monkees need to play Early-Bird Specials for their geezer fans? – but nonetheless we piled into Sam’s borrowed lime-green Oldsmobile and headed west.

It wasn’t until we reached Chicagoland’s premier concert arena that we began to realize what we were in for. As we drove into the parking lot just before 6 p.m. (having figured even the Monkees were too rock ‘n’ roll to take the stage at 5), the electronic marquee scrolled through a list of upcoming concerts and DePaul basketball games, then finally flashed the phrase, “Tonight – Monkees CYO Event.”

“Motherf**k!!” Sam yelled. Oblivious, I asked him what could have provoked such a response. His hands tugging despairingly at his white-boy afro, he replied: “Catholic. Youth. Organization.”

Now, I grew up in a small town in the South – the type where bitter people (mostly Protestants) cling to their guns and religion. So while I grew up a heathen, at least relatively speaking (my family were Unitarians, and we only occasionally practiced that), until I went to college in the Big City I had little experience with the phenomenon known as the Lapsed Catholic. I quickly learned, however, that the Formerly Faithful can be divided into two groups: those who are merely dismissive of the dogmas of their youths, and those who are downright angry. Sam was the angry type … so much so that his back would stiffen at the first mention of religion, and the slightest disagreement over the merits of belief would send him into an apoplexy of cursing and red-faced denunciation. (This trait somehow never completely ruined his friendship with his roommate, who shortly after graduation decided to enter the priesthood. Swear to God.)

I asked Sam whether he wanted to turn around and go home, but a 20-mile drive is a 20-mile drive, so in we went. Sam was already loudly plotting mischief as we passed the banners on the concourse touting the evening’s theme, “Shout!: A Celebration of Catholic Youth.” But he fell silent as we ascended the ramp to our seats, and were greeted not with the usual buzz of 15,000 people in pre-show conversation, but with … a kind of hush, as Peter Noone would soon be singing. And when we looked to the stage we found out why. There was Joseph Cardinal Bernardin, Archbishop of Chicago, standing behind a pulpit and offering a bit of rock ‘n’ roll liturgy to get the kids in the mood – but not too much in the mood.

“My friends,” he commanded, paraphrasing the evening’s headliners, “be a believer! Love is out to get you – and the name of that love is God.”

Thankfully Bernardin ditched the God-Monkees meme at that point, and actually did a fair job of pumping up the crowd – particularly when he asked “all those who have ever been bored in church to say, ‘Amen!’” When he was done, and his pulpit removed from the stage, the kids (mostly girls) surrounding us finally began to achieve the low roar of an arena-rock crowd – but only for a moment, until a way-too-enthusiastic young woman arrived onstage to commence the audience-participation portion of the evening.

“I want you to turn to the closest person you don’t know,” she bubbled, “and I want you to tell that person a little something about yourself. And then I want you to do it again, until you’ve told five people five different things!” With a little further encouragement – and a little intimidation as well, in the form of adult ushers who suddenly appeared in the aisles – the girls around us slowly began to heed their elder’s instructions. But none of them turned to Sam, or to me. They gave us a quick glance, saw that we were out of the demographic, and skittered off in other directions, leaving us an island unto ourselves.

Sam was fine with that – he was still imagining horrible things he could do to destroy the virtue of these nubile reverent young lasses. (This was the same guy who, earlier that autumn, had spearheaded a lyric-writing party in his dorm room that resulted in a punk ditty we called “Ashes to Asses.” A sample stanza: “So open the crypt, enter the chasm/I don’t mind if you don’t have an orgasm/From the grave I just wanna steal ya/You know I’m smitten with … necrophilia.” Yes, the future priest had participated.)

Toeing the line between co-conspirator and buzzkill, I laughed at but shot down one after another of Sam’s more extreme plots. (“No, you are not going to write 666 on your forehead.” “No, you are not going to invite those girls to join your ‘naked séance.’”) Finally we arrived at an agreeable, if lame, form of protest, which began when Sam suddenly stood and yelled, “Lust!”

Once I stopped cackling, I, too, arose and bellowed my personal favorite sin: “Sloth!” We were disappointed, however, to discover that our outbursts were not achieving the desired effect. Instead, the kids’ attention had shifted to the aisles, where volunteers were pulling footlong cuts of yarn from bundles and passing them into the seats. “OK, everybody,” the too-cheerful lady effervesced from the stage. “It’s time to make friendship bracelets!”

And so it was that Sam and I, along with 15,000 fellow weavers, found ourselves manipulating the multicolored strands into thin fashion accessories. As unexpected a development as this was (compared to the way we had been planning to spend our evening), what happened next was truly surprising. “Now – turn to one of your new friends and exchange bracelets!” came the order from the stage – and at that moment no fewer than a dozen girls reached toward us and offered us their wristwear. Sam and I gratefully accepted the gifts … and then, utterly nonplussed by our sudden inclusion in the festivities, sat down, shut up, and cheered with our new friends as the Grass Roots took the stage and launched into – what else? – “Midnight Confession.”

By the way, there was a concert that night. It went about as you’d expect – apart from the occasional irony that required a certain jaded maturity to appreciate, such as the way-too-old-for-this Gary Puckett singing “Young Girl” to a roomful of Catholic schoolgirls. Peter Noone was predictably bouncy but bland. The Monkees (without Michael Nesmith, who imagined he had better things to do) followed with an abbreviated, energetic set that opened with “Last Train to Clarksville,” included their comeback hit “That Was Then, This Is Now” somewhere in the middle, and closed with “I’m a Believer.”

They returned for an encore that sent their audience of righteous, Reagan-era believers into the night of that Lord’s Day with more symbolism than maybe even the band themselves recognized: “Another Pleasant Valley Sunday/Here in status symbol land/Mothers complain about how hard life is/And the kids just don’t understand.” Then again, maybe the kids understood better than we thought. After all, Sam and I were the ones who drove back to Evanston with a dozen friendship bracelets on our arms.

A buddy called me up and wanted to take me along to gets us a little funk education. He didn’t know much of George Clinton beyond “Atomic Dog” and the funny hair. En route, his schooling involved mostly learning the chants (”Make my funk the P-Funk, I want my funk uncut/Make my funk the P-Funk, I wants to get funked up”) and yelling them at the top of our lungs in the cah on the way to the cohn-suht.

He later got busted carrying a switchblade into the gig (are you kidding me?) but, since New Hampshire is close to Canada–the land of Rocky & Bullwinkle and the home of the nice–the pleasant security officers checked it at the door and let him have it back on the way out.

The show was worth at least twice the $15 general-admission cover, and that’s counting having to endure the Samples, which to my ears sounded like one long droning synth chord and cute harmonies sustained for oh, about four hours. In reality it was probably just a little shy of a two-hour set, but I’ve endured a lot of jam-band shows and these guys had to have been the worst, ever. Look up “stultifying” in the dictionary, and The Samples picture will be there. This band was such a peculiar opening act for the P-Funk All-Stars–they had no funk whatsoever, unlike the area jammers from the area like Lettuce and Jiggle The Handle, whose grooves could make us shake all the junk in our trunks.

Basically, while there were probably more than a few UNH students who knew what they were doing and some actual adults in the crowd who understood the whole funkifications of George Clinton and his branch of the rock family tree with Bootsy Collins and Bernie Worrell, it felt like this crowd had no idea what was about to transpire when the house lights dimmed and Dr. Funkenstein came out to throw down an absolutely magnificent set. Few of the guys behind Clinton were recognizeable, but according to Wikipedia, Kidd Funkadelic and Billy Bass would have been in the house. Both of them—and Clinton—made the Rock Hall in 1997, for what it’s worth.

Didn’t matter that it was Clinton sans Bootsy and Bernie, and it also didn’t matter that three decades of hard living had put some miles on Clinton’s odometer. The band ripped through the greatest hits, led the crowd through all the singalong choruses, and shook the fieldhouse’s foundation with bass notes that probably rattled The Samples’ tour bus—and showed them what a real groovin’ jam entails. Clinton was all over the stage, reminiscent of a gospel preacher, and although he was 54 years old at the time, he hit all the notes and literally controlled the audience with his hands, waving, gesticulating, commanding us to free our minds.

The Samples fans who’d stayed–I would guess at least a third of the crowd had left, taking their lighters and light sticks (ugh) with them–took a while to get into Funkenstein’s vibe, but that’s what George Clinton’s all about: Being an evangelist for the funk. A one-of-a-kind experience I’d recommend for anyone who appreciates music, whether they’re enlightened in the ways of the P-Funk…or not.

Fellow Popdoser Ed Murray and I ducked down to Boston’s Paradise to check out the Von Bondies (above: rhythm guitarist Marcie Bolen’s set list that Ed stole for me, knowing that I’m an incorrigible ephemera accumulator), a band known more for lead singer Jason Stollsteimer’s dustup with fellow Motor City Madman Jack White that led to White’s pleading guilty to assault and battery charges than for the band’s actual tuneage.

The Bondies’ then-current, now-former rhythm guitarist and background singer, Marcie Bolen, allegedly was romantically involved with White for a time–which has led to unconfirmed speculation that it could have been at least part of the reason he and Stollsteimer came to blows, although testimony in a later, unrelated federal case revealed that White may have been upset over Stollsteimer’s comments in an article about White’s production of the Bondies’ early recordings.

Fans of the television show Rescue Me will recognize the Bondies’ song “C’Mon C’Mon,” an edited version of which was used for its theme. The band performed it on Letterman before Bolen left the band:

Some phone company had sponsored the free show, and Ed and never did figure out what “VIP” privileges our being on “the guest list” actually entailed, but we got on it anyway just in case.

We’d just completed a deep, self-paced history course exploring the history of Detroit rock from the early pre-Motown vocal R&B groups to the MC5, Stooges and Alice Cooper, and found the White Stripes to be a fascinating outgrowth of the scene, along with other new groups like the Gore Gore Girls and Von Bondies. These new groups brought the rock in the garagey, no-holds-barred tradition of the Five and their twin pillars of guitar, Fred “Sonic” Smith and Wayne Kramer.

The show was tremendous.The Bondies ripped through their 14 songs with fire and brimstone, rocking through mostly uptempo selections from their repertoire. Stollsteimer is an antidote to today’s emo sound, all slash, burn and screaming, a white-hot force of vocal intensity standing forward of drummer Don Blum, a tornado behind the skins who makes old Keith Moon performances seem a little laid-back.

The girls flanking Stollsteimer (the bassist was new, a temporary stand-in) stood aloof, rocking gently, creating an effect much like the famous Robert Palmer videos of the late 1980s. To their credit, unlike in the Palmer clips, they weren’t just there for show; they were playing tight and hard along with Stollsteimer and Blum. Ed and I stood stage right, so close to Bolen she could have kicked us in the face as she stepped on her fuzz and wah pedals. We probably wouldn’t have noticed, as we were sucked in by the beautiful noise the ensemble was pumping out.

For a free show attended by a few hundred college kids and a bunch of milling yuppies hoping to score a cellphone deal—and a gaggle of peculiar salespeople working the audience as walking text-message kiosks with keyboards strapped to their chests—the Von Bondies played their hearts out. For the most part, the audience was either agape at the sonic firestorm or disinterested. I give the band much credit for blasting through the set as if it were its last–despite the half-interested crowd–and recommend them to anyone into garage rock, or fans of Detroit’s intense brand of rock that dates back to The Stooges and the MC5. The Von Bondies are worthy of the legacy of which they are a part. For that reason, here’s to the Von Bondies’ escaping the “fight night” tag and coming in to their own in 2009 with a new CD; keep abreast of developments at the band’s MySpace.

Some gigs are doomed from the beginning. This one was a failure waiting to happen. First, it was to take place in Worcester, Mass., a town I love for its working-class mentality and music scene that cherishes rock, blues, and jazz. Caught between the major concert towns of Boston to the east and Northampton to the west, Worcester has hungry music fans—lots of them—and a fistful of colleges to fuel the scene. But it just can’t get the top acts to make Wormtown (as the locals call it) a regular tour stop, yet the ones who do find the townsfolk quite appreciative. Covering the city’s concert beat for several years for a local arts-n-entertainment rag has turned out to be one of the most personally rewarding periods of my music-writing career.

Dinosaur Jr. formed out there in western Mass. in 1984, predating college mates and rivals the Pixies by a couple years. They were local heroes. To the fans, at least. Club connections I knew ripped on band leader J. Mascis for being overbearing, demanding, and pompous, irritating them by showing up to sold-out shows (not his own) with large groups of friends and throwing temper tantrums when they couldn’t get in. My assignment was to interview him for an article previewing his upcoming gig at Worcester Polytechnic Institute (WPI, or “whup-ee” as the enrolled like to call it) and he was a flaming dickass to me, answering most of my questions with one or two words and/or a grunt thrown in. He speaks like he sings, by the way, in a half-moaned, half-spoken cadence that recalls Emo Phillips on downers.

Point is, if you’ve ever tried to write a 750-word profile of someone you just realize is not actually worth the idolatry and gave you roughly 14 words’ worth of something to say…well, let’s just say it was a tough assignment. I give Mascis a mulligan; if he does that to me again, he’s on my black list. Enough other people have called him “cool enough” that I’m willing to believe he was having an off day.

But the great thing about writing club previews is that you-plus-one is always on the guest list. DinoJr continues to make great, loud, raucous pop, with occasional gems like “Feel The Pain,” “Freak Scene,” and “I’m Insane,” a little Mellotron-driven ditty from the band’s then-current album Hand It Over.

Two other groups were to play that night: Piebald, which I didn’t see and can’t say they showed up. Wharton Tiers Ensemble I vaguely remember, but have no idea what they sounded like. “Rakshak (Twilight of the Computer Age),” a surfy free MP3 from the group’s website, shows them to be pretty kick-ass.

Then came the headline act. I shall pause here to say that Riley Commons at WPI is a dining hall. With low acoustic tile ceilings. Dinosaur Jr. seemed to have brought their full outdoor PA setup, in order to do medical experiments on the 150 or so kids who showed up. The noise was so loud you literally could not make out what was being played, it all ran together in one solid “BLUGHA-BLUGHA-BLURGHHHHHHH!!!!” most of the time. I mean, you could see J. Mascis subtly rocking out and moving his head to what one would assume was the beat but man, you only could hear a wall of “BLURRRRGH.” And an occasional cymbal cut through. It was so loud, it was literally nauseating. Before that night I was unaware I had a clavicle, let alone what it felt like buzzing at its particular resonant frequency.

My “plus one” on the guest list was my buddy Jack, who lived downstairs from me at the time in my apartment building. This guy loves it loud. He gots a Van Halen tattoo on his arm, I kid you not. He couldn’t hear anything, either. The situation was really, really funny to him, it was so loud. He just looked at me and shook his head with a huge grin, like Nigel Tufnel the first time he discovered “eleven” on his amp.

After trying out many corners of the dining hall, four or five songs into the gig, we finally found a place where we could make out what song was being played—a remote corner in the way back of the room next to the propped-open door where the smokers were taking their breaks.

On the way home, my ears started ringing, which happened from time to time after shows. Except after the Dinosaur Jr. gig, the ringing didn’t stop for several days, leading me to believe I’d done some irreversible damage by not wearing ear protection. In fact, a couple years later I was having an argument with my wife Kate about something I heard her say (which turned out to be mis-heard) and she said “You ought to get your ears checked!” And dammit, to be a pain in her ass—and because I was worried she was right—I ended up going to a audiologist to get a damage report. Good news was, my hearing was typical—or better than—the average guy my age, whether or not he had attended that Dinosaur Jr. show.

The music, on the whole, was decent. Worth the drive, I guess. It took a few years before I could listen to the group’s CDs, and then a few more before I could appreciate them again, considering the ordeal.

Your takeaway lesson, dear Popdose reader? Wear earplugs at rock shows. I’ve worn Hearos ever since DinoJr. At first, people mocked me but nowadays, so many more people are wearing them that I don’t stick out in a crowd. Fringe benefit: If the show sucks, you hear less of it.