David Thomas: barefoot and surly. Nothing good will come of this. Michele Temple and Tom Herman: Rock Gods, Senior Division. How to humiliate a sound man. Soccer mom or rock star? Robert Wheeler, mad scientist. A lighter moment for Thomas and Mehlman. Wheeler's gear.

Normally I do my best to respect opening bands. Today's opening bands are tomorrow's stars, right? So unless I know for a fact that a particular opening band is singularly execrable, I'm usually willing to commit to an hour of mystery music.

Not tonight, though.

Having just returned home from a grueling day in the city, I'm in no hurry to get back down there. The lure of Pere Ubu is enough to get me into the city, but I'm not in the mood to Discover New Music. I leave the house pretty late, gambling that Pere Ubu won't go on 'til after 11:00.

As it is, the roads are pretty clear, and I catch the final two songs by The Kentucky Batfuckers, or something along those lines. Two songs are more than enough. Ouch.

For the uninitiated, I should probably take a moment to explain the appeal of Pere Ubu in a live setting. Yes, the music is great, but I think most fans see Pere Ubu for the spectacle. Pere Ubu frontman David Thomas -- all several hundred pounds of him -- is utterly unpredictable...though it's safe to assume that he'll be in a foul mood. David has no tolerance whatsoever for technical problems, so of course every Pere Ubu performance is plagued by malfunctioning microphones, monitor problems, band members too high in the mix... Things go wrong, and Mr. Thomas responds with focused, intense, withering scorn. He's probably capable of delivering fatal levels of scorn. Perhaps that's why Pere Ubu so rarely plays the same venue twice.

This is the band's 25th anniversary tour -- a week of shows, without any particular album to support. They're free to play anything from their long and storied history.

The performance is a blur of classic David Thomas moments. Thomas takes the stage, slips off his shoes and stands barefoot on a rug while performing. The band rips into "30 Seconds over Tokyo". Thomas drinks from a flask. Thomas dons a flourescent smock, upon which has been mounted a Radio Shack pressure zone microphone (a flat metal plate with a microphone affixed to the center, often used for miking audience response), a mess of XLR cable and a wireless transmitter. Thomas becomes irritated when one of his two stage mics doesn't work adequately. Thomas removes the microphone, stuffs it in his pocket and drags the unneeded microphone stand out of the way. Thomas calls the club's sound guy up on stage during a song -- "You'd better get this fixed right now, and we'll just write this song off, or this is gonna be a long, unhappy night."

The band sounds predictably tight, enhanced by the drumming of relative newcomer Steve Mehlman. Perhaps the drums are higher in the mix than at past Pere Ubu shows, or maybe it's because Mehlman, at 29, has far more energy than his bandmates, but the percussion is more intense than I've heard in the past. The rest of the band picks up on this energy. Guitarist Tom Herman is a model of mannered intensity; he watches David Thomas' histrionics with a wry grin, laying down fierce and noisy rock as he goes. Diminutive bassist Michele Temple looks like she'd be more at home behind the wheel of a mini-van, until you notice the speed with which she dishes up complex rhythms. And of course, Robert Wheeler is at the front of the stage, tinkering with the arcane knobs and frayed patch-cords of his vintage synthesizer, or playing his theremin like a mad scientist turned virtuoso.

David Thomas explains that while the band once went to great lengths to create thought-provoking, clever setlists, they "can't be bothered any more". Instead, they perform the songs in strict alphabetical order. This, he elaborates, means that their one so-called "hit" comes up fairly early in the evening's entertainment.

And so we get a spirited rendition of "Final Solution" in which Thomas slurs his way through the lyrics, Herman and Wheeler make a lot of noise and Temple steps in to sing the strangely solemn bridge. It's fabulous.

It's a high point among high points. We're also treated to versions of "Beach Boys", "Worlds in Collision", "Dub Housing", "Highwaterville" and "Sad.txt", to name just a few.

There's more fun, of course. Thomas' flourescent smock arrangement doesn't work unless he puts it over his face and sings directly into the PZM. I find myself hoping that this is something the club concocted for Thomas, as it's just a little too inept an arrangement and I'd like to believe he knows better.

Thomas drinks more. Thomas tells stories. Thomas is once again dissatisfied with his secondary mic, but this time he stuffs the mic in his pocket and hurls the mic stand to the ground, swearing loudly and profusely.

I'm shooting pictures during all of this.

"Who are you shooting for?" asks another photographer with far nicer gear and an obvious lack of interest in the music.

"Splendid," I reply. I still live for the day when someone will actually recognize the name. Today is not that day.

"I'm shooting for the (Chicago) Tribune," he says, smiling the smile of the righteous and arrogant.

"Yeah, I could tell that from the way you shoved in front of me," I reply. He gives me a dirty look, shoots a few more pictures and leaves, while my head fills with dreams of a protracted feud between Splendid and the Trib, and I start thinking of ways to enhance this anecdote for future tellings ("...and then he pulled a knife!").

Thomas becomes annoyed with Wheeler, who has suddenly found himself far higher in the mix, to the point where keyboard and theremin rumble the floor in front of the stage. "Stop drowning me," Thomas screams in quite-possibly-real anger. Wheeler throws a "why me?" face to the audience.

Mehlman plays a jaunty little interlude on a tiny flute. This seems to put Thomas in a good mood, despite his mic woes. The errant mic is working better now, and he's singing into both of his microphones at once, clinging to them with both hands as if willing them to become a single, superior sound instrument.

After slightly more than an hour, the band leaves the stage. They hate the whole silly "leave the stage/return to the stage" encore ritual, but it's a necessary evil. When they return, we are treated to a blistering version of "The Modern Dance". Wow. Herman is incredible. Temple is incredible. Mehlman is incredible. Wheeler is beyond description. And David Thomas is undeniably brilliant.

Pere Ubu doesn't really function like any other group. Part arts collective, part dead-serious business, they exist according to their own -- oh, let's be honest, Thomas' own -- extremely rigid set of rules. They may not be as active as they were in the seventies, or in the mid-to-late nineties, but they still belong on your list of Bands to See At Least Once Before You Die. I say "Before You Die" because I firmly believe that David Thomas is going to outlast us all.