Eviscerated. Savaged. Enlightened. Revitalized. Last night, Joey Plunket called Hans Condor a palate cleanser. He was right. "Is the rumor true?" Joey kept asking during his band's set. As soon as Kaster walked in the room, I knew it was. I had never laid eyes on the man until I saw him. Then I was immediately certain it was true. When Kaster and the rest of Hans Condor, a dreadlocked bassist, Erik Holcombe, and drummer Ryan "Best in the Biz" Sweeney--both immensely talented, took the stage, my life changed. Our lives changed. Everyone who had stayed up way past his or her bedtime on a brisk December Monday night changed. Even if those folks had seen Hans play only hours before across the street at the East room.  For one, no one will ever hear the same. But that isn't the change I am referring to. I'm talking about the organ shifting injection of soul. From the Marshall stack amplifying Kaster's screaming White Gibson SG onto the frothing horde; the throbbing bass; the rapturous drums; all of which churned together into a burning Semi on a collision course with the darkest recesses of my mind. From Kaster; possessed by the furor of the wildest animal in the zoo after said creature broke into the adrenaline storeroom. A man ready to undo everything, including the notion that I knew anything at all about rock 'n roll music. From the crowd; most of which had already seen Hans Condor earlier yet still remained at the witching hour clamoring for more. Praying to whatever angel or ghoul that the band never releases any more statements announcing a break-up. "Always available for weddings, birthdays and bar mitzvahs." Please. One can't describe the theatrics. I can barely convey the energy, though I have tried here. All I can say is that I was in a sleep-deprived haze when it started and nearly alive as I've ever felt once the sustain gave way to steadily ringing ears. This is a primal experience that has to be experience in the flesh. Floor-writhing, cord-choking, mic-swallowing, crowd-surfing, crowd-jeering, crowd-cheering, ear-splitting, phlegm-spitting, snarling, caterwauling rock and mother fucking roll. The real deal. The heavyweight champion. The musical spawn of a mountain lion and a mongoose. The three piece I hope to catch many, many more times before it's all said and done.