[JUNKYARD BLUES] "Did you get saved up there?" asks Cicada Omega drummer Dave Rue, grinning and sweaty after a set last Tuesday at Dante's. We're standing in the basement of the brimstone-inspired venue on the hottest day of the year so far, and—in the aftermath of the band's fiery set of gospel-laden blues—the question seems most apt.

See, Cicada Omega is led by a bona fide minister: singer, guitarist and "snake charmer" Barry "Rev. B.D." Winfield. And his band's hypnotic, R.L. Burnside-inspired junkyard blues—which rattle with unconventional percussion (kitchen utensils, truck parts, gardening tools)—leave you feeling dazed, if not exalted. The band, whose name echoes the Bible (Revelation portends a swarm of locusts, often confused with cicadas) and the players' homeland (Kentucky), aims to inspire—but it's no gimmick. "What we do is the realest [sic] thing there is," says Winfield in a thick drawl.

The band realizes its image, which includes playing homemade instruments and listing whiskey, the Bible, Col. Sanders and death as its top four MySpace friends, could be perceived as novel. But Winfield is so sincere when discussing his beliefs that he seems downright uncomfortable. "I am a very spiritual person," he explains. "For me, religion's the whole package: the devil, God and everything in between." And Cicada Omega's custom instruments—bassist Daniyel Hicks alternates between a suitcase bass (which doubles as a bourbon holder) and an oil-drum bass—are the real deal, too: "It's funny, 'cause we see people who are creatively trying to do stuff like that, and we did it out of necessity," says Winfield. "Seriously, we made [our own] instruments because we didn't have any money."

Now the band (which runs Blue Pepper Records on the side) is just trying to make a name for itself, which can be difficult with such an unclassifiable sound. "If we say any one thing that we do, it's misleading," explains drummer Rue. Percussionist Salim Sundiata Sanchez chimes in with a story about playing a Cascade Blues Association event: "[The crowd] didn't know what to make of us. [Everything else] was...Chicago blues, very by the book." Rue cuts him off, "Almost every song was about how 'my baby left me.'" "Their babies didn't leave them," interjects Winfield.

Winfield may best encompass the band's sound when he describes its namesake: "If you've even been around cicadas, they're really loud and musical," he says. And Cicada Omega—which plans to release its debut full-length this fall—is certainly both. Winfield wails on the guitar and harmonica like he's truly emancipating damned souls, and the band's heavy-hitting rhythmic threesome adds a trancelike element that's both grounded and bewitching. "Everyone's lookin' for something real to grasp onto," says Winfield. "When shit hits the fan, you want somethin' real you can feel in your soul." .