While thumbing through the radio dial on the way home from a Kansas City Royals game, my wife, Julie, and sons Eric and Thomas were trying to agree on what station to settle on.

We have XM satellite radio in our cars, which, like cable television, offers more than 100 channels, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to find what you want when you want it. Especially when you are trying to satisfy four tastes.

But we did this day.

On Channel 53, known as “Fungus,” we found a show called “Rancid Radio.”

I turned up the volume. Sure enough, there is Lars Frederiksen, guitarist and vocalist of the punk band Rancid, interviewing members of The Briefs about their song “Kill Bob Seger Right Now.”

My baseball-loving, hamburger-eating, “Everybody Loves Raymond”-watching family is made up of head-pounding punk rock music fans. And Rancid is one of our favorites.

Eric, 14, and Thomas, 10, have inherited my taste in music: the grittier the better. While I prefer old-school punk to Bowling for Soup, we have found a common ground with Rancid.

I got turned on to the California band about the time Eric was born. Rancid sounds like a melding of two of my favorite bands: The Clash and The English Beat, the modern-day godfathers of punk and ska, respectively.

When they were younger and their friends were grooving to Barney, my boys were learning the words to Rancid’s Warped Tour anthem “Ruby Soho.”

But as big of fans as we are of the band, we’ve never seen them live. (Let me clarify something about Julie’s interest in Rancid: She puts up with them.)

Soon after that Royals game when we discovered Rancid Radio, I was walking by the Liberty Hall and a flier caught my eye: “Rancid, July 30.”

Over dinner that night I told the boys the news.

“Cool, I want to go,” said Thomas, who rarely will pass on an adventure.

Eric was a little noncommittal.

Julie said, “That would be a nice boys night out.”

As the concert – the boys’ first live rock event -approached, they began to experience some anxiety.

Thomas feared for his ears. “How loud will it be?” he asked.

“It won’t be any worse than your hockey team locker room after a victory,” I assured him. Still, he requested earplugs.

Eric, on the other hand, worried about looking uncool. “Not to worry,” I told him. “They’re punks.”

I didn’t add that I wore a cream-colored leisure suit to my first concert, Bad Company at Chicago Stadium. My older cousin, Karen, who offered to take me to the concert, laughed when she came to pick me up for the show. I was 14, and what did I know about what you should wear to a rock concert? Between acts at the Bad Company concert, a guy with long hair parted down the middle said, “You’re the best-dressed guy here.” I think he added, “Dude.”

Sunday night arrived, and off to the show the Anderson boys went. I had Thomas’ earplugs in my pocket.

After parking, we walked along Seventh Street to Liberty. There was a big crowd sporting spiked hair, tight black jeans and Doc Martens, the punk rock uniform.

The boys appeared composed as we approached the group.

In the middle of the crowd was Frederiksen, smoking a cigarette. “Look guys,” I said to the boys. “There’s Lars.” I was as giddy as the time I pointed out Cal Ripken to Eric at Fenway Park.

We entered the theater and headed toward the balcony, at the boys’ request. There would be no mosh-pitting for us tonight. We went straight to the top row and claimed our seats.

The Unseen were the opening act. They were loud, jumped round stage as if they were on pogo sticks, and the lead singer screamed through the entire set.

Thomas put in his earplugs, which were too big. Finally, he gave up.

Musically, the boys were less than impressed, as was I. Still, Thomas said, “Now I really want a guitar.”

Then, the lights went low, and the crowd roared in anticipation for the opening act.

Rancid wasted no time and soared into a hard-driving tune.

I looked at the boys, who upon recognizing the song, moved to the edge of their seat and clapped their hands inconspicuously.

Compared to the crowd, the boys were sedate. This was uncharted territory for them. They were curious and soaking up the experience.

They studied the skinny Tim Armstrong as he dragged his mammoth guitar around the stage as if it were a weighted crash test dummy.

Thomas marveled at the size of Brett Reed’s drum set, and how he later emerged from behind his kit to pick up a guitar and join the rest of the band.

Rarely did they budge from their seats, and I wondered if they were having fun. I know I was.

As the hour approached 11 p.m., the boys’ faces glistened with sweat, and they were near exhaustion in the sweltering theater.

We headed for the car as Rancid played their last song.

Thomas was talking loudly, the concert having temporarily affected his hearing as his earplugs were back in my pocket.

Eric remained quiet, until we got home.

Once there, the boys raced upstairs where Julie was quietly reading a book.

They became alive, and recounted every moment of the concert, sang Rancid songs and made fun of me for my lack of ability to grow a mohawk.

They hadn’t missed a moment of the concert.

They wanted more.