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Back in ’94, Pantera, the cowboys from hell themselves, saved my relationship with my mother. “Hmmm, what’s this?” Mom asked as she cradled my new CD in her manicured hands and smiled. “Pantera—isn’t that the name of a neighborhood in Olney?” “NO! That’s TANtera,” I sneered in disgust. “PANtera is a band! Just forget it—you wouldn’t understand.” In an attempt to relate to her eldest daughter, or just to piss me off, she perused the album’s liner notes. “Far Beyond Driven,” she read the title of the album as if it were the name of a Nancy Drew book and I was 7. “Now, who’s Dimebag Darrell?” Mom cocked her head at the ganja-laced guitarist’s name. “Isn’t that a drug reference?” My mouth fell open. How the hell would my mother, Shirley Jones’ long-lost twin, know “dimebag?” Suddenly I saw images of my mommy, passing the dutchie to the left-hand side and chugging brew with the likes of Dimebag backstage. I got up, left the room, and haven’t mentioned it since. So check for my mom (she’ll be the one wearing the “Martha Stewart Eats Domestic Brie” T-shirt) when Pantera plays the Capitol Ballroom with my dad’s favorite band, Biohazard, and every crusty punk’s favorite, Neurosis, at 8 p.m. at the Capitol Ballroom, 1015 Half St. SE. $23. (202) 554-1500. (Elisa Nader)