Uncle Tupelo's Monday night show at Stoney's made me damn glad I wore boots.

No, not combat boots or hiking boots or L.L. Bean yuppie boots.

But good, solid beat-out work boots, boots that have seen a few miles and are worn and comfortable. Just like the band itself.

But I'll admit I had my doubts.

Walking from out of the February cold and into Stoney's Posthouse Tavern, 146 N. Atherton St., I wasn't sure what I'd find.

Sure, I've heard Uncle Tupelo's albums, but I've always been scared off by the country feel of Anodyne and company. They always reminded me of chewin' tabacca, Hank and jacked-up monster trucks in my high school parking lot. And they went against everything my (elitist) alternative rock upbringing taught me.

The crowd did little to soothe my fears. Land's End yupsters and sideburned college boys mixed with State College's oval-eyeglass-wearin' intelligentsia. A young couple groped each other under the inflatable Miller beer toys and neon Foster's signs.

Where were the honest, laid-back folks of "New Madrid" in this capacity crowd? They were there all right, but where?

It took only the first few chords from opening act Joe Henry to bring those folks out. An hour of twangy guitar laid over lonely vocals made me ache to drive a huge, rust-eaten Chevy down a stretch of long, empty Kansas highway -- and not feel clichd about it. The smell of a clove cigarette drifted through the room, and I drifted with it.

Onlooker Lisa Dribin snapped me back to the present when she noticed my notepad and leaned over.

"This is going to be worth the money if Uncle Tupelo is half as good as this band," Dribin yelled as her long, dark hair bobbed to the music.

She certainly wasn't disappointed. And neither was I.

When these blue-jeans guys from Belleville, Ill., took the stage, they made a believer out of me. With their blend of country and rock, they set every foot in the room tapping.

A thirtysomething in a Laura Ashley floral print sang along. She knew all the words. So did the flannel-clad working man clutching the Yuengling bottle.

I only wished I did.

Singers Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy's 4 a.m. empty-highway voices drew rust-belt heartbreak into a smoky barroom. And Max Johnston's fiddle drove it home.

The lineup mixed honest, straight-forward rock 'n' roll with the lonely-hearts ache of country. But from the upbeat sparseness of "Acuff-Rose" to the anthem "Chickamauga," country music's maudlin sentimentality was absent.

Uncle Tupelo's songs aren't about desperate people, they're about strong people. Their style is stong, too.

Not quite country, not quite rock, Uncle Tupelo is somewhere in between. And I had to find out where.

Pushing through the aftershow crowd, I approached Jay Farrar and asked him to do the one thing bands hate (and critics love) -- to label their music. His eyes, framed by a beaten baseball cap and long, scraggly hair, lit up.

Where did the band consider itself musically? I asked. Are they country or rock?

"Machine wash, tumble dry" Farrar said, smiling. "How's that?"

Comfortable, indeed.