Forgive me, Father, for I have aged. Allow me to explain: The sweet sounds of Monster Magnet first graced my ears in 1993, when a friend let me borrow their '91 release "Spine of God." I suddenly had the opportunity to discover what so many in my generation had been deprived of until then - "Stoner Rock." Sustained, fuzzed-out chords; echoing vocals; lumbering bass; plodding drums; lyrical references to Snake Dances and Zodiac Lungs -- I couldn't get enough. I played that album more than I care to (or even can) remember. Years later, this once-unheard band began popping up on the radio. Not on obscure, underground college radio, mind you; but on major stations across the country. I felt a tingle of joy, knowing I had "heard them before they were big," yet at the same time I felt a little disappointed by songs like "Negasonic Teenage Warhead." Their songs started to seem a bit commercial-friendly, at least when compared to their wanderlusted epics of years before. Little did I know this was a barometer, and a storm of commercialism was a-comin'. Several years after that, I caught their "Space Lord" video on MTV, and my suspicions were confirmed. Seeing these gents parade around Vegas in sunglasses, rhythmically pounding their fists and thrusting their chap-clad crotches at the camera's fisheye lens, I felt not sad, not angry, but just plain disenchanted. There's campy tongue-in-cheek and there's just plain lame, and they were dangerously close to the latter. Perhaps I'd choked on so many saltwater parodies that I was just thirsting for a sip of freshwater originality. Monster Magnet's live performance at the Troubadour last Tuesday was the bland icing on the jaded cake. Front man Dave Wyndorf successfully completed the requisite checklist of stage theatrics, including kneeling in front of the kick drum with arms outstretched, ejaculating his water bottle onto the crowd, kissing a blonde groupie in the front row, lighting a kerosene-soaked guitar, etc. Yes, we've all seen it before. Yes, he kept us visually entertained, but where was the music? Where were all those thick, hazy grooves from yesteryear? They had been replaced by a menu of indistinguishable, fast-tempo, 4/4-beat, standard rock fare. If I were King and Dave was my minstrel, he'd be headless by now. And you should know that I'd have done it as an example; for the greater good. It hurts me to hurt you, Dave.

Opening band "The Operators," fronted by ex-Fu Manchu and Kyuss drummer Brant Bjork, instilled a flashback or two: if I'd closed my eyes, I'd have sworn I was in a sports bar back in Michigan, listening to a house band churn out bluesy-groove fodder whilst a pack of fraternity brothers held their beers aloft, displaying their approval of what could easily have been Lynyrd Skynyrd meets Eddie Money. The four-piece included a keyboard (which I could barely hear) and Brant and his guitarist shared vocal duties. After all of 10 seconds, I began to realize that this wasn't Kyuss and this wasn't Fu Manchu - Brant and his Operators were nowhere near as heavy as either. Imagine carp fishing on a dock, with Bad Company and Thin Lizzy coming out of an '84 Bronco parked nearby. Better yet, imagine the 15-second segues that Paul Schaffer and his CBS Orchestra pound out before a Dave Letterman commercial break, trying desperately to hype the weary audience with a random snippet of recycled rock. This is not to say that Brant and his gang lack talent -- in fact, for their last few songs, Brant and his guitarist swapped roles, and they each impressed me with their alternate capabilities. I daresay they should keep that lineup, as Brant seemed a better guitarist that the other dude, and vice-versa. It's just that their product is a bit, well, too familiar. I think I heard the words "rock and roll commander" in one of Brant's songs. Unfortunately, these commanders were in desperate need of a General.

Burning Brides were my personal highlight of the show. This power trio (sorry -- I love using that term) kept my attention throughout their entire set. This band hammered the crowd with straight, balls-out power. Yet this wasn't sloppy basement stuff; this was tight and consistent. They effectively covered all the bases, from thrash to stoner rock, and everything in between (pop, punk, metal, etc.). Imagine "Bleach"-era Nirvana or early Local H, and throw in an extra X chromosome and a bucket full of molten lead, and you've got Burning Brides. Singer/guitarist Dmitri Coats wailed and screamed every tune with pure energy, and he contorted his body almost uncontrollably as he punished his weapon's strings. Bass player Melanie Campbell quickly dispelled any myths about her gender's ability to keep up with the boys, as she shook her disheveled hair in a messy (yet sexy) fit of aggression. I could've sworn I saw her playing cords, too - all the thicker, my dear! Apparently grunge and garage aren't dead, and these kids don't forget their noble roots. Tell me where you're registered, Burning Brides, 'cuz I'm throwin' you a shower!