By Duncan Scott Davidson

DESPITE THEIR INIMITABLE cool, five albums, and a ton of 7-inches, Atlanta's Woggles haven't been hanging ten on the wave of "they're gonna save rock 'n' roll" hype critics have been burping about the various postmodern, barely postpubescent neo-garage acts to come along over the past few years.

"Critics were trying to find something worthwhile in every new music genre that was being developed," Woggles vocalist Manfred "the Professor" Jones says. "They just started missing rock 'n' roll. They ignored all the rock 'n' roll bands that have been going on since at least 1987" – coincidentally, the year the Woggles formed. One of the acts purported to be the saviors of R 'n' R were from a country best known for giving the world the antirock schlock of Abba and Roxette.

"God, man, if I can only grab onto those goddamned coattails," Jones says, joking about Sweden's white-shoed playboys the Hives. While playing Europe's garage-rock "chitlin' circuit," Woggles drummer Dan "Electro" Hall bumped into some guys in the bathroom of Munich's Atomic Club. "The three of us, we are big Woggles fans," their spokesman announced in a thick Teutonic accent. "But him" – he pointed to a fourth guy – "he says the Hives are better. We think we should kill him. What do you think?"

"It's cool. He can like the Hives," Hall replied, trying to be charitable. "You don't have to kill him." The Woggles had heard of the band, but at the time, they hadn't actually heard them.

"Really," the guy said, "it's not a problem for us to kill him."

When the Woggles came back to the States, the country had been turned into a Hives hive. Garage rock was back, and it'd gone metric! The quintet came, they saw, and they were vicious! They declared "Guerre Nucleaire," for chrissakes. On a quiet night in the back of a sweaty van, the silence was broken, randomly but pointedly, by Hall: "I should've told them to fuckin' kill that guy."

Though they're not in heavy rotation on commercial radio, things aren't so bad for the Woggles. Little Steven, whom Jones sees as "championing rock 'n' roll," started playing their revved-up soul stomp "Got a Heat On" from Ragged but Right (Telstar) on his syndicated radio show, The Underground Garage. This led to an invitation to play a festival of the same name in New York City Aug. 14. And play they did. For 10 minutes, to be exact.

The festival, headlined by the reformed – well, reunited – New York Dolls and the Stooges, was held on Randall's Island, a cozy nook between Harlem and Queens, and drew an estimated 16,000. "It went from three days to two days, then the revolving stage got stuck, then a hurricane came in," Jones says. Bands waited in line, being shuffled from tent to tent for an hour and a half before hitting the stage.

Nonetheless, the Woggles managed to enjoy the experience. "The event itself was actually pretty fun," Jones says. Jones and crew covered Bobby Freeman's "The Swim," teaching an "army's worth of go-go dancers" the hand motions before their set. Once they got onstage, the "million-dollar mic stand" didn't hold up under the pressure of the Professor's stage act. "The clip, instead of just screwing on the top, fit into some weird-ass apparatus that went inside the stand – and that popped out! I just threw it away," he says. Coming offstage to the possibly intimidating sight of Little Steven, a.k.a. The Sopranos' Silvio Dante, Jones apologized. He got a puzzled look, a shrug, and the absolution, delivered in a Jersey accent, "Hey man, that's rock 'n' roll, baby."

Rock 'n' roll, baby, has as many tragedies as triumphs. Probably more, which is what makes it so damned gigantor and Shakespearean and all. When you think the phrase, if not the music itself, has had the life squeezed out of it, you can throw on "Rock and Roll" by the Velvets, or better yet, just "dance to a rock 'n' roll station," and baby, it feels all right. Sadly, it'd take a blistering amount of dancing to approximate feeling all right when the Woggles lost their guitar player and founding member, George Montague Holton III, a little over a year ago due to complications from diabetes.

"The right thing seemed to be to continue on," Jones says. "It seemed the best way to honor his memory and his efforts. He is certainly with us. 'Doin' the Montague,' Montague's theme song, has taken on a whole new meaning."

Montague's memory has been with me too. In the past couple of weeks, while kicking around the idea of a Woggles piece, I've been overcome with a craving for KFC. I couldn't pass the blocklong swath of fried-fowl stench near a franchise without getting hungry. Last night I finally gave in, setting a decidedly poor example for my three-year-old daughter as I ordered a bucket of what they're now dubbing "Kitchen Fresh Chicken." Today, while digging around on the Woggles Web site, I came across a photo of Montague – in Jones's words, "a very big man with a large appetite" – hugging a statue of Colonel Sanders. A guiding hand? I don't know. Maybe. Kitchen Fresh Chicken? Hell, no. When I'm done writing this, I'm heading to the fridge and hoisting a leg in honor of Montague, a native Georgian who loved his Kentucky Fried. Doing the Montague!

BudgetRock3 showcase

The third annual BudgetRock takes place Fri/1-Sun/3, Parkside, 1600 17th St., S.F. $10, three-day pass $25. (415) 503-0393.

Fri/1, 6 p.m., Morlocks, SLA, "Mystery Band," Killer's Kiss, Lamps, Bug Nasties, and Salem Lights.

Sat/2, 5 p.m., Woggles, Omens, Mothballs, Okmoniks, Knight of the New Crusade, Red Onions, and Jailbirds.

Sun/3, 5 p.m., Legendary Stardust Cowboy, Woggles, Teenage Harlets, Hot Rollers, Introducers, Shambles, Sort-Outs, and Coppertones.