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I SCENE IT 10-04-06

This week Frank hits Saints and Sinners, Rob Cullivan's farewell show, and Baby Gramps

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Swung like a monkey

The Saints And Sinners burlesque troupe has sainted and sinned tumultuously at Tilt for just about a year now. But last Friday's performance was simply the best so far. The costumes were excellent --- titillating even --- as they vibrantly accented the flamboyant bump 'n' grind.

Despite all the sweet, swivelin' eye candy, it was the addition of Rochester's Southern gothic darlings The Lobster Quadrille to the proceedings that sent me fo' sho'. The band gave the night a real traveling carnival/tent revival feel full of sweat and linen and redemption. It was gorgeous. It was perfect. It was heaven and hell. Music for my soul and T&A for my DNA. I was thoroughly sassified. Come with me next time... bring napkins.

Rob Cullivan's last show and testament rocked WaterStreetMusic Hall. Cullivan jammed with countless friends and musicians just as he's always done. Except this time they were joining him, and they were actually invited.

The first time I ever played slide guitar on stage, Cullivan was at my side. Together we butchered Dylan's "Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat." Well, the butchery continued as the soon-to-be departed (just the West Coast, not the dirt coast) and I limped (or waltzed, if you wanna be kind) through several jump shuffles. Hi-Riser guitarist/songwriter extraordinaire Greg Townson sat behind the drums and played them. What can't this cat do?

And in keeping with my temporal gratification in temporal gratification, this was the first and last show of Rob Cullivan & The Lousy Catholics. Our swan song was on its maiden voyage. This group will never happen again. If in some weird off-chance it did, it would be strictly a tour of church bingo halls.
Speaking of alternative venues, hobo troubadour Baby Gramps played an intimate set at The Record Archive Monday night. With his battered National on his knee and Hypnotic Clambake's Maury Rosenberg at his side on the stomach Steinway, Gramps traversed the American folk underbelly with a wink. Lyrics are this guy's jungle gym which he swung from like a vaudeville monkey.

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