Gone Green: A relatively young and ecstatic crowd filled the Grady Cole Center on Sunday for a show with trip-hop, rap-rockers 311. Since it was St. Patrick's Day, there was plenty of green to be seen (or rather exchanged). The show itself wasn't a cheap ticket, costing 25 greenbacks. Parking, if you could call it that, was $5, as were the brewskis while they lasted. And even a bottle of good ol' H20 cost $2, which was a buck too much. Concessions conveniently "ran out" of beer just as the band took the stage, leaving plenty of people disgruntled and green with envy. Apparently, though, the beer didn't run out soon enough for some ladies who were heard hurling in the bathroom -- or maybe they had turned green from being tossed around in the monstrous mosh pit which pulsated throughout the night in front of the stage. Although the band originally hails from Omaha, and they really don't have one tune that could pass as Irish, they were definitely down with the green, too. . .as in marijuana. As the band ripped through songs like "Hydroponic" and "Who's Got the Herb" and big, green images of pot leaves danced across the walls, it became obvious that money wasn't the only kind of green some concertgoers had on 'em, either. -- Lynn Farris
Scorchers and stogies: Longtime twang-punk favorites Jason and the Scorchers are celebrating their 20th anniversary by playing a six-show reunion tour. They packed the house at the Double Door Inn Friday night. The Scorchers, led by the spastic Jason Ringenberg, often didn't bother to finish verses, as the crowd shouted along the whole time. A sign on soundman Les Moore's console said "Les: Turn down heat," and couldn't have been more appropriate, given the band's Replacements-on-speed sound and the sweaty fans packed like sardines in front of the stage. One fellow thought the conditions perfect to light up a fat cigar -- the perfect accompaniment to a crowded room that already feels like it's right next door to hell -- sending billows of smoke into the faces of those standing all around him. One patron, a pierced and tattooed local musician, found inspiration in the country-punk sounds of the Scorchers, releasing a few volleys of spit onto the man's backside with every plume of smoke he released out of the smelly stogie. Smoke 'em (or soak 'em) if you got 'em. -- Tim C. Davis