I first heard Ween almost fifteen years ago as a freshman in college. At the time the then-duo had just released their third album, "Pure Guava," which through some small miracle someone had convinced Elektra to release.

Even more miraculously, Elektra coaxed a minor hit out of the stoner/psych/pop album in the faux-Prince ditty "Push th' Little Daisies," which succeeded largely on the strength of the video's appearance on "Beavis and Butthead" -- and which is where I (and scores of others) first heard the band.

It is in many ways perfect that so many people were introduced to Ween via "Beavis and Butthead." The show's creator, Mike Judge, has a twisted, perpetually adolescent sense of humor strikingly similar to those of Aaron Freeman and Mickey Melchiondo, aka Gene and Dean Ween, two childhood friends from New Hope, Pa. who formed Ween when they were still adolescents themselves.

I followed Ween's career from then on, getting their first two albums and buying every new one, starting with the still-amazing pop classic "Chocolate and Cheese" and the nautically themed "The Mollusk" and going up through 2003's curiously staid "Quebec" and now "La Cucaracha," which was just released Oct. 23.

Although I haven't technically bought "La Cucaracha" yet, I've given it a cursory listen at Luna Music Downtown. It's packed with more of the same twisted, genre-hopping tomfoolery Ween has been doling out for years. Even as the band's musicianship has improved steadily with each new release, its artistic scope has remained stubbornly simple. Ween apes a variety of genres -- often generally despised ones like yacht and prog rock -- with jaw-dropping accuracy, and injects it with healthy doses of darkness and humor.

If you visit the band's Web site, you can check out its message board, where dyed-in-the-wool Ween fans are furiously debating the merits of "La Cucaracha." While the majority believe Ween has crafted yet another masterpiece, a vocal minority feel the band has lost something with the onset of older age.

I tend to side with the latter. I'll buy the new album anyway, though, because the band has played such a unique and unforgettable role not only in my life as a fan, but also as a journalist.

In 2003, I reviewed a Ween concert in Indianapolis, where they performed for the short-lived Jammin' On Jersey festival. My review, which was hastily -- and really, poorly -- written, apparently struck a chord with Ween bandleader Aaron Freeman, who e-mailed me personally to thank me for writing it.

The e-mail knocked me off my feet. I was still very much an amateur journalist at the time, writing mostly concert reviews, and none of the artists I'd ever covered had ever deigned to contact me personally. Getting the e-mail from Freeman made me giddy, and it emboldened me. The next day I wrote him back to ask for an interview with him in Columbus, Oh. later that summer when Ween would perform there. He kindly agreed.

A couple of months later I went to Columbus with a couple of friends and perfunctorily downed three pints of Sam Adams prior to the interview. I thought it would calm my nerves, which were twitching like live wires. When the time for the interview arrived, I went to the venue and was taken to a dressing room, which was decked out with a vegetable tray, various bags of potato chips and lots of booze.

When Freeman entered the room, he said "Hello," and immediately grabbed a full bottle of Stoli vodka. He removed the lid and thrust it to his mouth. A roadie walked in just as he was putting the bottle down.

"What are you doin?!" the roadie said, sounding like a concerned dad.

"I'm just trying to keep it together," Freeman muttered, and then laughed as he sat down for the interview.

He was unfailingly nice, didn't wear shoes, gave me as much time as I wanted, and had a pallor that suggested he had just finished a long hard few months of self-abuse with no intention of stopping.

I finished the interview, which was published a couple of months later. A few months after that, it was announced that Ween would be canceling its remaining tour dates. Rumors of rehab floated about in cyberspace, but the band kept their personal matters appropriately personal.

One of the concert dates that was cancelled at the time was in Bloomington. Last week -- Oct. 16, to be exact -- Ween arrived at the Bluebird in Bloomington to repay the city the show it had promised it three years earlier.

The show sold out in a matter of hours, so I contacted Ween's manager, who offered to put me on the guest list. On the day of the show, an old friend and fellow longtime Ween fan picked me up from work, and we embarked on the 45-mile drive to Bloomington. But unlike the long drives I'd made to Ween shows in the '90s and early '00s, this time my gut wasn't charged with excitement. Both the band and I have gone through a lot over the past several years. We're in different places now.

As for Ween the live band in 2007: Freeman is clean and sober, but his newfound sobriety hasn't compromised Ween's electric stage presence, which in Bloomington was as rapturous, impassioned and awe-inspiring as at any other Ween show I've seen. Unfortunately, though, the Bluebird's tavern-like layout was a terrible fit for a band that enjoys such a large and devoted following. Those of us who arrived late were relegated to the outskirts of the bar, where we were hard-pressed to see anything and where the sound was absolutely awful.

Those who battled to get to the front of the stage were well rewarded for their efforts. I watched them as they emerged from the scrum, sweaty and sporting glows redolent of the post-coital variety. I envied them. Because even though Ween played a set heavy on old classics -- "Dr. Rock," "Nan," "Mr. Would You Please Help My Pony?," "Tick," "Tender Situation" -- that old feeling wouldn't be coming back to me that night. Nor do I expect it to any time in the future. Even so, I'll keep trying as long as the band does. I owe 'em that much.