Despite a few technical difficulties and a slew of mosh pit casualties, 311’s assault on The Love Shack in Des Moines proceeded with jagged ferocity and enough energy to power Dr. Emmet Brown’s time machine.

The boys from Nebraska (Omaha, for you geography majors) slipped on stage with the stealth

of roadies; with no words at all, they launched into their first tune.

They did a great job of mish-mashing their old material with the new, month-old-and-not-yet-sleeping-through-the-night album, 311. The second song, off their new CD, was obviously influenced by reggae and had the audience swayin’ like a sailboat in the Caribbean, mon.

Lead singer Nick Hexum got a tad nutty a song or two later, as he informed the crowd, “Aliens just took over P-Nut’s brain, and SA got stung by a hornet at sound-check. Now that’s sacrifice!” With no additional pomp and circumstance, 311 exploded into “Voice.”

The humidity, coupled with some violent peacock-esque thrashing, was apparently too much for SA Martinez and his sweat-soaked shirt; he followed Tim Mahoney’s lead and stripped to the skin.

Members of the audience had already taken Mahoney’s cue, for shirtless, hairless adolescent torsos continued to propel around the pit to the musical turbulence.

During “Good,” a more melodic, harmonious tune, the swarm

of moshers and crowd surfers near the stage were at a loss. They seemed to be wondering, “Dude,

do we keep bouncin’ around, or do we stop? Let’s just make sure to keep our arms in the air and scream, ‘Yeeeeeaaaahhhh!!'”

Speaking of the crowd, I know that the show was “all ages,” but I guess I forgot that that meant 12-year-olds were more than welcome to don thrift-store bowling shirts and 311 baseball caps, get Mom to drop them off at the door and wolf cigarettes with the sneakiness of drunken sailors, all in the company of one of the hottest bands ever to escape the Midwest.

I guess I’m bitter because I felt old.

But anyway. While Hexum and Martinez volleyed vocal duties for most of the songs, SA hopped behind the turntables several songs into the set to squirt some squeaks and scratches into the tune. P-Nut’s fingers slipped and slid over

the strings of his bass like butter. What a mighty good man . . . Mahoney slipped some Fozzy Bear (from the Muppets) music in the next couple songs: they chattered, “wakka wakka wakka” so much that it could’ve been part

of the theme music for “Starsky and Hutch.”

As it got darker and darker outside (at around 8 p.m.), the lights on stage warmed up; the yellow, red and purple flashes imparted a hearty fruit-basket glow on drummer Chad Sexton.

“Unity” hearkened back to 311’s days of yore (i.e., high school) in the cloaked disguise of a hardcore nursery rhyme; the harmony between SA and Hexum, fused with some intense, almost sing-songy rhythm blasted Little Miss Muffet right

off her tuffet and into the seething mosh pit.

The action came to a grinding halt a few songs later, as some sort of cable or cord came loose, and power to the microphones and maybe the amplifier went out. After some back-and-forth between Hexum and the soundboard, 311 sauntered off stage, much to

the panic of the crowd.

Did the cops shut the show down? Did some drunken fool trip over a wire? Was the band pissed? Were they gonna go back on?

Much to the relief of everyone, 311 cruised back on stage within a minute or two. Hexum tried out

the mic: “Is this thing on now? Can you hear me?” We kept our ears open, thankfully, because “Omaha Stylee” pumped out of the now-unclogged speakers. Our lifeblood was pulsing once more.

A few tunes later, however, 311 called it quits, but not before P-Nut beat out a bass solo worthy of worship. The hour-and-50-minute show ended as casually as it had begun; 311 didn’t offer an encore, nor

did the exhausted crowd request one. The pit disbanded, and individual moshers tried to catch their breath, mend their flannels and nurse their wounds.