Supagroup

Somewhere deep in the swampland of New Orleans, a diabolical, bayou-spawned shaman begot the ultimate rock-and-roll voodoo doll. Angus Young's broken guitar picks became its eyes; Gene Simmons's used condoms became its skin. And then, in a fit of unholy transfixion, this high priest of the occult emptied out one of Joe Walsh's hash pipes, and lo! It became the doll's brain. And the shaman named his effigy Supagroup. And he looked at it, and it fucking rocked.

Over the past five years, the Louisiana-headquartered Supagroup has embodied all the qualities of classic rock that have been rendered neutered or ironic in our smug, post-alternative world. The band's second disc just came out, and it's a straight shot of hundred-proof blues, raunch and overdrive that recasts the riffs every great cock-slinging outfit of the '70s, from Aerosmith to ZZ Top. If the names Humble Pie, Savoy Brown and Foghat mean more to you than just those moldy piles of cardboard in your uncle's basement, go to the Larimer Lounge and get up close and evil with the hell-raising, shit-kicking racket of Supagroup. While you're at it, stick a fork in the band's ass and watch Ted Nugent wince.