The stage at Hangar 9 Friday night should have read Ladies and gentlemen, please engage your seatbelt devices, before Fragile Porcelain Mice whipped up a tornado of sound through an hour-plus show.

Fragile Porcelain Mice guitarist Tim O’Saben’s t-shirt sent a strong message about the attitude the band wanted to conjure as it pictured a mailman pointing at the crowd saying, Don’t mess with me, I’m disgruntled. The band lit fire under the barstools as they pumped up a lackadaisical crowd.

Sporting a Chuck E. Cheese uniform in favor of the oft-donned female dress, Scott Randall, Fragile’s lead singer, instantly cranked up the intensity level when he ripped the apron and hat off in a spasmodic fury at the beginning of the set. The band, especially Randall’s mental-patient-without-the-sedatives look, appeared to be exorcising Carbondale’s soft-rock station demons. The band ignited like the space shuttle at take-off by ripping through five consecutive songs from their upcoming CD, Frost Bidding, due out in March. The sparse crowd felt the need to become physical, erupting into pseudo-slam dancing amidst the tobacco-fueled haze in the newly remodeled (but still not ventilated) Hangar.

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O’Saben’s contorted, twisted riffs caused Randall to writhe in painful agony that he could only quell by angrily screaming out the lyrics of a powerful foray of new songs. Bassist Dave Winkeler plucked away viciously at his instrument with closed eyes and a sinister do you wanna die smile for about 66.6 percent of the 15-song set. He and drummer Mark Heinz forged the foundation for the band with their throbbing sound.

A cover of the Dead Kennedys’ California ber Alles rocked the crowd, as did Fragile’s own Cops, a song about hating cops and cop television shows.

Just prior to mid-set, an overheated Randall asked the crowd if it was OK to take off his shirt or if it was against the law in Carbondale. He opted to leave it on just in case.

By flexing its enormous rage-filled musical muscles, Fragile showed Carbondale why it is near the top of the St. Louis circuit.

Celery, the second of the three-band performance, was highlighted by the flailing physical beating drummer Gus Nanos applied to his kit. Nanos should have been promptly arrested for battery by the authorities after the gig for the way he abused his drums. Nanos’ impressive beats and exceptional sound kept bassist Steve Marshall fighting to create the groovy rhythm section.

When guitarist Phil Browne’s love-making stage act ran dry of sex-filled humor, it was songs like Twit, Toilet Song and a cool rendition of Sergio Mendez and the Brazil 66’s own Masquenada that kept the extended set alive. Lyrics like I am not your toilet baby Shit on someone else was nearly as entertaining as Browne’s guitar-humping routine. An overload in one of the speakers during mid-set caused the sound to become uncomfortably distorted for a brief period.

The opening act, Bob, had the few double-fisted drinkers dancing to its rockabilly good-old-boy tunes early on. The Randy Travis-meets-John Hiatt-and-a-bottle-of-booze sound was Bob’s forte. The band didn’t explore many musical dimensions but was good at kicking out the songs it did play. Females jiggled their pigtails to the friendly, feel-the-good-times sound of Bob.

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Bassist Scott Morris, soon to be shopping for a back brace, hunched over his instrument throughout the show while helping guitarist/vocalist Don Bailey create the pick-up truck on rocket fuel sound. Unfortunately, songs with lyrics like I got drunk at school and I flunked became an exercise in redundancy after about the 13th ditty. Bob is good music for a period of time but needs a touch more intensity to become the AC/DC of their schtick.