My parents have always been open-minded people. As a kid, when it came to clothes, friends, hobbies, whatever, my predilections pretty much had free reign so long as the dollars required were few and the chance for loss of limb, minimal. Thankfully, musical preference was another area my folks felt needed little if any prescription on their parts. In fact, Fat of the Land, a gift for my twelfth birthday, is the only record ever taken away from me, and even that probably would have been okay had “Smack My Bitch Up” been buried a few tracks deeper. This is not to say, however, that music never got me into trouble. Volume was a frequent point of contention, as was my great love for bedroom slam dancing—I know that sounds like some euphemism for masturbation, but it’s not. Years of reprimanding and a misplaced head bang here and there eventually taught me some small degree of restraint. A few songs always proved impossible for me to deny, though, and my local radio station—as if completely aware of this fact—took to dropping these sonic depth charges at all hours of the night. “Low” by Cracker and “Bound for the Floor” by Local H were two of the biggest culprits, but played frequently enough that in time I developed a slight resistance to them. The station’s secret weapon—pulled out only when I was already on the thinnest of ice—was the curb-stomping glory of Whale’s 1995 hit “Hobo Humpin’ Slobo Babe.” Heads up, when the huge guitars and vocal conniptions melt into that irresistible bass groove, parental door banging becomes painfully audible…