Has there ever been a hotter or hepper participle phrase band than Counting Crows? Let’s see. . . .

Smashing Pumpkins? Nope. Scraping Foetus Off the Wheel? Not a chance. Addicted to Ronsonol? No way! Speaking of Pizza? No no no. Betrayed by Rita Hayworth? Not on your life. Killed Dead By a Fucking Cop in Fresno? You gotta be kidding. Dreaming of Wet Panties (U.K.)? No sir, no ma’am. Tossed Out of Preschool? Don’t make me laugh. Wallowing in Judeo-Christian Bullcrap? Nein. Spreading Nasty Lies ‘Bout My Mom’s Unfinished Butt Tattoo? Nyet. Aided ‘n’ Abetted by the Vogue for Soy Milk? No-o-o-o, I tell ya. Championing the Young Sonny Liston? Forget it. Blaming Frida Kahlo for the Death of Trotsky? Well . . . not quite. Dreaming of Wet Panties (U.S.)? Yes, to be honest, the stateside installment of Dreaming of Wet Panties is the equal of Counting Crows and on special nights surpasses them . . . if only by a hair.

And you probably thought this would be an exercise in futility.

Gorge Amphitheatre, opening for the Who. $61.45-$192.70. 7 p.m. Sat., July 6.