If there is anything more deeply and soul-satisfyingly titillating than pissing full-force into the whirling blades of a softly-sparking electric fan set on high, it might be (maybe -- could be -- OK, it is) listening to Panicsville. Once a local production (not that you care, because you would rather get your septum pierced than go see a local show), Panicsville returns from Chicago to, ahem, "play music" at Radio Cherokee. "Play music" is top-secret code for "construct a crèche of electronic equipment and claw one's way kicking and screaming from the guts of this womb to emerge, bloody and with shards of plastic embedded beneath splintered fingernails, triumphant. And then dive back into the wreckage in search of a hit single." Panicsville is the reason for the Brood X locust swarm, and the sound of happiness being smothered under the corpses of a hundred million puppets.