The ranks of actors who take a sabbatical to chase down the rock'n'roll dream is cluttered with dubious entries into the music world: Keanu Reeves' Dogstar, Telly Savalas, the Baldwin Brothers are just a few of the more inglorious transplants from the silver screen to our stereo. So when Michael Pitt -- probably best known for his role as Hedwig protegee Tommy Gnosis in Hedwig and the Angry Inch -- changes gears and goes from a budding actor to a budding rocker, a little suspicion is in order.

Ten seconds into Pagoda's self-titled debut, it's clear that suspicion isn't justified. Sure, by some weird twist of fate, Pitt's secondary career, acting, got a heck of a boost long before he got his true calling, Pagoda, off the ground, but don't let it bug you. Pagoda's proof that Pitt's wasting his talent playing little-heralded roles when he should be plugging into a full stack and destroying listeners' ears each night.

Channeling the sort of energy we've come to expect from bands with a huge distortion pedal collection, a bigger chip on their shoulder and a provincial punk-underground outlook on life, Pagoda rifles through the legacies of everyone from The Pixies and Nirvana to The Television Personalities and The Jesus Lizard. Singer/guitarist Pitt joins drummer Ryan Donowho and bassist James Kelland (both of whom have already departed the band since this album was recorded), in a display of some of the coolest sectors of your record collection. With crisp guitar tones that show you don't need a steaming-hot fuzz pedal to rip heads off, Pagoda's all temper-tantrum energy. "Amego" checks everything cool about the grunge era -- the pummeling low ends, crackling guitars and live-wire energy -- as Pitt looks to establish himself as the new millennium's Kurt Cobain. He could probably do it, too: "Sadartha" inherits the legacy of "Heart Shaped Box" as Pitt groans like everyone's favorite, and dearly departed, reluctant youth icon amid a mid-tempo mix of clamorous guitars and cello that'll leave your ears ringing -- as they long for more. "Fetus" with its barked vocals, spidery guitars and unexpected dashes of dissonant guitars, is the sort of song The Pixies probably wish they still knew how to write. "Voices," which lets a clean guitar flounder around in the grips of a sludgy low end and crashing rhythm section, resists temptation to fall into torch-ballad territory as Pitt and company keep it intense even as they slow it down.

Although Pitt steeps Pagoda in a slew of obvious influences, he assembles them deftly enough to avoid sounding like he's stuck in a role playing Black Francis or Cobain. Pagoda certainly owes a lot to its predecessors, but isn't so indebted it can't step out of their shadow. Better call Hollywood and tender Pitt's resignation; he's in the wrong field.