You know, sometimes you're lucky enough to find a disc that perfectly suits where you're headed: the dry cleaners, the clinic, Wegmans, hell, etc. With my evening errands complete, I recently found myself driving 'round and 'round the inner loop, circling our modest skyline to the sounds of the King of Soul, Solomon Burke's, new CD, Don't Give Up On Me (Fat Possum), three times 'till it was done playing. Went and got me an Abbott's and breathed a sigh of relief.
Please check out The Flower City Angels at The Bug Jar, as they threaten to blow the lid off the place every Sunday night with their energy and casual urgency. It's an open jam as well, so haul out your B3. This is what pop would, could sound like if its purveyors didn't busy themselves with pleasing the lowest common denominator.
Conversated for two hours at The Lux Lounge with a voluptuous, coffee slingin', opera singin' chanteuse who affectionately referred to me as "dude," while the woman next to us at the bar knitted a sweater.
I'm now convinced there is actually only one Playmate, as month after month of Playboy yields the same bleach-blonde, fake-boobed, Aryan bimbo. I wonder if anyone else sees the irony in the fact that the centerfold's nether region is shaved to look like Hitler's mustache.
"Mm mm, not me. I'm sanctified in the Holy Ghost. Praise God, 'alleluiah," said one over-zealous patron at the Auditorium Center, protesting alcohol being served at the gospel play, A Woman's Revenge. Kee-rist lady, I just offered you a Fruitopia. These gospel plays have a moral, but with all their stereotypical shuck 'n' jive about black parlance, fried chicken, and red Kool-Aid, they come off kinda like a minstrel show. Despite their huge popularity among Blacks, I just don't get it.
I don't ordinarily endorse the boob tube, however, the new fall show Push, Nevada is one of the coolest, noir-ish thrillers I've seen in ages. Very Twin Peaks, and, naturally, doomed because I like it --- a thumbs-up from me is essentially the kiss of Nielsen death.
So they're not fat and they're not Italian, but The Swingin' Neckbreakers were swingin' and neckbreakin' on The Sopranos last week. Spending this winter in front of the one-eyed babysitter may not be so bad after all.