Sound Check: Simple rules to follow for surviving concerts

"Now, Carter," the generic reader often tells me, "your job rules all booty. Going to all those shows for free. You lucky (expletive)."

To which I can only offer a two-word response: "The" and "Rembrandts."

Let's apply Newtonian physics here: For every action there is a separate but equal reaction. Action: Having seen and reviewed every touring act that blunders through town, I am finally confronted by the composers and performers of the theme to "Friends." Reaction: Well, I can't really say without bringing up that Gordita you just ate. Suffice it to say I've paid for every one of those shows, in ways I can't express with ladies present.

Now you want to go to the gig. Well, I can't tell you how worried I am for you. You're not a kid anymore, pal. You go in there cold, and the kids will eat you alive. Stay behind me, and do as I do, and we'll all have a good time. Like the Rembrandts say, I'll be there for you.

1) Get the plugs. It's better to have and not need than need and not have earplugs. The best over-the-counter plugs I've used (you can get them prescribed -- recommended if you go to a lot of shows) come from the good people at Flents. Seal-Rite soft silicone plugs block out up to 21 decibels -- ideal for those situations where you stumble into a Rob Zombie show hung over, only to find the old ghoul has schlepped in a stack of amplifiers taller than Dennis Rodman's stacked legal briefs. Do not mock tinnitus.

2) Call ahead. A quick phone call to the box office is advisable for any show with opening acts, for the box office knows what you don't: What Time That Damn Headliner Is Supposed To Show Up. A 30-second call will tell you how much time you have for dinner (approximately) and drinks (there is always time, friend). And I can count on one hand all the times a band has gone onstage before the start time I was given. Call three hours in advance of the time listed on your ticket for best results.

3) Wear what you will, but count on it reeking of tobacco, beer and cannabis after the show. Unless you already reek of all those things -- in which case, please wear one of those pine tree-shaped automobile air fresheners around your neck.

4) Valet when possible. The time you'll spend waiting for your SUV to come up is equivalent to the amount of time you'll spend in bumper-to-bumper combat in some parking hell, leaning on your horn and screaming "Oh, (double expletive)."

5) Gentlemen: Never, ever wear a concert T-shirt to a concert. It identifies you as a complete and total yahoo who irons his jeans, has a wallet on a chain "just 'cuz" and puts concert T-shirts on hangers. Ladies: if you find yourself in the company of one of those unfortunates, the town is chock-full of cab companies. Take your pick.

(6) Don't vomit in good company. Don't mosh unless you're prepared to help anyone who falls down. Don't even get near mosh pits if you're over 30. Don't bring your stupid laser pointer. Don't use the festive atmosphere to justify bad behavior. Don't scream in anybody's ear, no matter how cute that Monster Magnet guy looks in coordinated vinyl. You do all this, Virginia, and I promise you -- you will come out of the gig alive and unscathed. Unless, of course, you're going up against that unruly Rembrandts crowd.

Stereo Dynamics

You'll have until April 13 for the release of "Beaucoup Fish," Underworld's sleek, layered follow-up to their breakthrough "Second Toughest in the Infants" release. Once you hear it, you'll wonder how you ever made the stretch.

Underworld is probably best known for its soundtrack work: "Moaner" in the last, despairing "Batman" vehicle (the motorcycle race scene) and "Born Slippy" from "Trainspotting" ("I ripped them off ... my so-called mates"). Those two tracks displayed the techno outfit's strengths -- Rick Smith and Darren Emerson's beats placed wholly in service of melody and Karl Hyde's extemporaneous free-form prose ("She's calling from America/she's surfing, she's moshing") -- but on "Fish" they are polished to a blinding sheen. "Jumbo" bops along like a suicide blonde in six-inch pumps; "Bruce Lee" puts the action deity squarely back in the urban jungle; and the insistent "Push Upstairs" gives repetition a good name.

"Beaucoup Fish" comes at a sensitive time, as the Electronica movement is roundly stomped by the same so-called arbiters of taste that named it in the first place. But no mere faddists could get your blood going the way Underworld does. It's the big fish in that small, glowing pond.

Get Out, Act Up

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