Go protest the welcome of "Dr." Kissinger tonight. Or go see William Upski Wimsatt speak at the Walker. Or see Queens of the Stone Age at the Xcel Energy Center. Or the Blood Brothers in the Ascot Room (here's what I've written about them). Drive up to Duluth for the Homegrown Music Festival, starting tonight and going through Sunday (bring a coat).

On Friday, start hitting the Cinco de Mayo festivals. Or see X2: X-Men United. Or hit Heiruspecs at the Quest Ascot Room.

On Saturday, if you haven't seen either of them, catch Mason Jennings and Yawo at First Avenue. Or see the Vortex Navigation Company at the Franklin Art Works, or 25 Suaves at Big V's.

On Sunday, don't miss one of my favorite things about Minneapolis: the May Day Parade and Festival. Then head to De La Soul at First Avenue. (Judging from what I've reported here, it might be your last chance to see them.)

Email me your own weekend plans at pscholtes@citypages.com

Standing behind the merchandise counter at the Sage Francis show last night is a 22-year-old graffiti artist named Mr. Graceful. He's selling zines full of his art and wearing a new Hüsker Dü t-shirt, something I haven't seen for years.

"Where'd you get that?" I ask.

"Tatters. It's the nickname my parents called me when I was a baby."

"What, Tatters?"

"Hüsker Dü. Now I'm into Bob Mould so it's cool."

Onstage, Cecil Otter and P.O.S. (which Otter says stands for Piece of Shit) kick off the first hip-hop show at the Cabooze in years. P.O.S. has thick dreads and a "rap sucks" tee. Otter looks like muffler repairman. They are, in Otter's words, "looking Minneapolis... feeling North Dakota." P.O.S turns to his right and shows off his physique: "My racial profile is beautiful."

The rappers have a DJ named Tom Servo (am I the only rap fan geeky enough to get this?), who looks like somebody's tall younger brother. They have technical difficulties. Their energy flags as the packed crowd quiets.

But then they pull out a song like "Duct Tape," which breaks a sweat and breaks the ice. Available on the duo's limited-release EP with the Doomtree crew, Mega, the track reminds me of what Boogie Down Productions used to do with percussion samples, what the Clash did with Celtic fiddle, what Hüsker did with a broken home on their post-hardcore masterpiece Zen Arcade--the only album I ever gave Slug.

I tell P.O.S. afterward that I've gotta take off to see Heads & Bodies (pictured) at Big V's in St. Paul. "I wish I could be there," he says. P.O.S. used to play drums in Cadillac Blindside and loves hardcore.

At Big V's, I run into Slug's significant other, who happens to play in a punk band (though she prefers the term "slut rock"). I'm toting the new Lost Cause Magazine, which Mark Baumgarten handed me at the Cabooze. Somebody asks where I got it. The cover is about boycotting Clear Channel. Paulie from Heads & Bodies is wearing a t-shirt that says "Fuck Clear Channel" on the back.

After an energetic Giants Chair/Fugazi-ish band from Pittsburgh (Pikadori), Heads & Bodies take the stage (and the floor in front of the stage) for their stop-starting, Beefheartian, clarinet-powered art-core. Brilliant. Then Paulie introduces the next song: "This one goes out to the graffiti writers." A chorus of cheers comes from the front.

Love G.R.Anderson, Jr.'s and Mike Mosedale's takes on the conceal and carry law. The funniest thing anyone said about it all week was Britt Robson's solution for drug searches at music festivals: "Hide it in your gun."