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Only the Pacific Northwest could've produced a band like the Melvins. They spoke a language we rain folk understand, with bone-rattling violence evoking the spongy aftermath of a morning burst, when the elements so relax the earth that the muck claims your shoes with a hearty slurp. (We've called their music sludge or fudge; at the moment I lean toward homicidal butterscotch, caroming rapids of caramel — sorry, one of those Dairy Queen commercials came on.)

There's no rain like our rain. Sure, it rains elsewhere. California gets a nice dusting now and then, a three-day bitchslap that tends to affect only those knuckleheads rich and silly enough to live in the hills. It's God saying, "I've razed your neighbors with my holy blowtorch, dropped bobcats on your house pets — what part of ‘move' don't you understand?" Suddenly your living room's slaloming toward the 101. Oops.

But our rain is sentient. It has a sense of humor. It waits for you to leave your house. Then it trails you through town, toys with you, hammers your helpless form with slits sharp as nails, offers respite, and then pelts you anew with a meteorological bouillabaisse uncooked since Biblical times. Forget umbrellas. Umbrellas only make it mad.

So, naturally, you can't leave the house much, especially when you're young and poor. The only time you open the front door is when the beer runs out. And, oh, the quality of that elixir! Couch-drainage, pocket change pooled for Bohemian, the housepaint of libation. It's like drinking your own teenaged essence. But who's gonna argue for a buck a 40?

What's a bunch of bored boys to do in a nowhere town dotted with homicidal rain except loiter in the basement getting stunk or start a band? I chose the former, and look at me now. Roger "Buzz"/"King Buzzo" Osborne chose the latter, though he swam his share of laps in the other too.

Let's get the whole Melvins/Nirvana connection out of the way, since writers are bound by law to mention it. Both bands are inextricably linked, although without the Melvins, there'd likely be no Nirvana. Oft-told lore holds that the teenaged Buzz knew the teenaged Kurt Cobain and fed him mixed tapes loaded with Black Flag and Flipper. Kurt couldn't help but idolize Buzz, who had his own band — named after Buzz's much-loathed fellow employee at a Montesano, Wash., Thriftway — and occasional gigs around the region.

One was captured for posterity and included on Ipecac's essential Mangled Demos From 1983 (2005) as "Elks Lodge Christmas Broadcast." This is fast-punk-overdrive Melvins, pre-Dale Crover (who joined around 1984 and hasn't left) Melvins, and the on-air team's at a loss to explain what these loud hooligans are doing at Jesus' party. "Oh, my goodness," one gasps as the striplings rumble into place for "If You Get Bored." "Now, there is a sound."

And how. That's the sound of our murderous rain and its torrential thirst for small-town souls. Some days you can watch from your window as it dilutes and shoves every one of your dreams toward the nearest open-mouthed storm drain. It can sap your ambition and stultify your mind. Who knows — someday you might wind up on an Elks Lodge radio show as a condescending meat-puppet cracking nervous about foundation thud and the mushroom hum: I never escaped, I spread 'em for the humdrum, so those curious enough to follow other paths are worthy of only my scorn. HAW, WHATABUNCHALOUDSTONEDWEIRDOSAMIRITE?

The tradition persists on this year's Nude With Boots, a demented classic-rock record with the occasional excursion ("Dog Island") that would've landed smooth on any of the band's major-label trips back in the '90s.

If you're not familiar with that triumvirate (Houdini, Stoner Witch, Stag), oh, you're in for a feast. Behold — a video cornucopia of "Honey Bucket," "Revolve," "Queen," "Hooch," and "Bar-X-The Rocking M":

From the new album, "Billy Fish," performed live in 2007:

Raucous, no? God bless the Melvins.

Watch our collection of Nirvana videos and count the Melvins/Nirvana comparisons for yourself.

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