Since their fiddle-fortified tone poems evoke corn silos more than missile silos, you could get pretty suspicious by paying attention to written descriptions of the way these wide-eyed urban cowpokes get their country kicks. After all, after George Bush in overalls stumping for the farm vote, the last thing this country needs is a mannered bunch of Manhattan bohos who use textured harmonics and jingly guitars to create a carpetbagger’s vision of the heartland. Who needs another band that makes critics running out of adjectives mention Lou Reed, Gram Parsons, and the Texas Playboys in the same sentence? Fortunately, the first thing you can do is throw all the descriptions out the window. The Silos are wonderful for the simplest of reasons: because they sound so good. But especially on Cuba, one of my favorite albums of 1987, they’ve also had bright ideas about what a sound can say. With their uncanny ability to make snapshot images of everyday living and deceptively uncomplicated riffs that linger on in the memory, the Silos show more promise of becoming the band of the 90s (or of recording The Band of the 90s) than anyone who’s been hanging out with Robbie Robertson. Saturday, 7:30 PM, Cabaret Metro. 3730 N. Clark; 549-0203.