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I am so deeply ashamed that I will be unable to make it to Key West for what promises to be unprecedented bad-ass-ness, produced by some of my favorite people on the scene, Tatah Dujour, Marky Peirson (both of Key West), and our local lovely, Jen Gapay. Plus, I’ve never been to Key West and when I met Marky Pierson at the Slip he made it sound positively inscrutable. Plus, I bet it’s warm there. But as I keep sayin’ like a CD player stuck on repeat, soon as someone starts paying me for my trouble, the easier it’ll be for me to cover every scene I’m invited to. Well, that’s just J.D. singin’ the blues. As for the rest of you, if you have the means, I strongly recommend it. Drop by and check it out.
(The following is lifted blatantly from the press release:)
The first annual Burlesque Holiday Extravaganza takes over downtown Key West this week! Key West’s Marky Pierson & Tatah Dujour present a wild four day event with two huge rip roaring glamorific shows with over 25 amazing performers from far away lands. The first annual event is co-produced with NYC’s hot impresario of nightlife, Jen Gapay of Thirsty Girl Productions.
With performances by Dirty Martini, Michelle L’amour, Julie Atlas Muz, Indigo Blue, Lily Verlaine, Trixie Little, Jo Boobs, Little Brooklyn, Gigi Lafemme, Lux Lacroix, Roxi D’lite, Tatah Dujour, Nasty Canasta, Minnie Tonka, Darlinda Jus Darlinda, Ophelia Flame, Clams Casino, Harvest Moon, Cheeky Derriere, Moana Amour, and Anita Cookie… Hot Toddy, Tigger! The Evil Hate Monkey, Jonny Porkpie, Seal Boy, and Mr Marquee Vonfister, and featuring Murray Hill!
Tickets here and for all the info you could ever want check out Key West Burlesque. Please go! Since I can’t!
Marky & Tatah, break legs and world records!
kiss kiss,
JDX
—and who wouldn’t want to be?
Standing in line to get into the Gotham Comedy Club to see Harriet Halloway I suddenly felt as straight as an uncooked linguini noodle at a fusilli festival. Straight as a swizzle stick at a crazy straw convention. Read the rest of this entry »
No. I found that out the hard way this morning as I hit the bank on my way to the City and found it SHUT. Next thought: why would the bank be closed on a Wednesday? Then I read the sign, and suffered what can only be called extreme and profound embarrassment. I didn’t know it was Veteran’s Day.
Back in grade school, we got days off for everything. These days, I get days off for precisely nothing shy of Xmas, Turkey day and the 4th, so nothing registered. But Veteran’s day should be important, right? Remember when wars were righteous, when there was bona fide evil in the world and Americans could be regarded as heroic? (Not that there ain’t evil in the world now, but the water sure seems muddy on the villain/hero front.) Forget the tortuous debate about 9/11 and Iraq for a moment and remember that these are our boys, and they are getting’ shot up all to hell.
Today’s Veteran’s Day Parade in NYC starts at 11:00 am at 23rd Street and 5th Avenue, heading up to 57th Street and 5th Avenue, with an estimated 23,000 participants. One of the highlights (according to the AP) will be the presence of the Navajo Code Talkers, which should elicit some great nostalgia for righteous warfare and American ingenuity. (Try not to recall that in the days following September 11th our government couldn’t find anyone who spoke Arabic.)
Oh—and if you see a military flyover today, don’t panic. It’s part of the homage. Raise a glass to those who gave their lives for your double-mocha caramel cappuccino, kids, and to all you hawks AND doves, try to remember that supporting the troops is not in contradiction with patriotism or pacifism.
Kiss kiss,
JDX
James Tigger! Fergeson as The Great Longing and Taylor Mac as The Lily. Photo by Ves Pitts.
“Our language can be seen as an ancient city: a maze of little streets and squares, of old and new houses with additions from various periods; and this surrounded by a multitude of new boroughs with straight regular streets and uniform houses.” —Wittgenstein
For “The Lily’s Revenge,” Taylor Mac’s latest opus at HERE, he borrowed the 5-act structure of classical Noh theatre to construct this whopping five-hour piece—magical, intellectual, hysterical, and linguistically acrobatic. The audience is led—by the divine, effervescent, and perpetually bubbly World Famous *BOB*—from lobby to theatre and back for each “recess,” during which the audience is entertained by short, punchy acts meant to reference Japanese Kyogen. Now, forget about Noh because I won’t mention it again for another three hours.
Dragged into the 21st century kicking and screaming, these days I get invited to more events than I could possibly attend, and occasionally wonder how I got invited in the first place or even why I went. Take last Thursday’s book release party at Destination Bar in the East Village—celebrating the book the world has been waiting for, THIS IS WHY YOU’RE FAT.
Cue existential crisis, mad envy, clueless drunkenness, and, yes, fear for the culture of a dying planet. But before the chilluns deride my old-fashionedness—or just my oldness—let me first say: I love the website. The food alternately grosses me out and inspires cravings of the post-bong-hit variety, and above all, Richard Blakeley is a genius. And a nice guy, alleged crimes aside. Too bad the bar was packed with Twitterbots.
Cool, refreshing, autumn weather of perfection falls to rain, the dreaded brace for winter, and the overwhelming desire to sleep in late every day only to move to the couch and watch movies. A rattled blogger considers starting a weekly column called “Great Moments from Bad Movies,” his habit is so deep. His burlesque daydreams conspire into his sleeping life, and the myriad crushes threaten cripple his daily crushes on the L train. How many crushes can one man nurse at once? And is burlesque a form of kryptonite? Hey, if anybody’s out there—this cold kid is looking for some new preoccupations. Open to suggestions.
But what I really wanted to tell you is this: It’s SO hard getting out of bed, that the last two mornings I’ve woken up fantasizing about the Slap Chop. Yes, the Slap Chop. When I slap that snooze button on my alarm clock, I’m thinking, “Slap your troubles away with the Slap Chop.” And wouldn’t it be so bitchin’ if you could load up your Slap Chop the night before with fancy fruits, and as you slap your snooze button you’re already chopping up your morning fruit salad?
Ok—even better: The power cord to your alarm clock is draped across the Slap Chop. You only have to hit the snooze button once.
A man can dream. Have a gloomy drizzly New Yorky day. Meanwhile, if you haven’t seen this lately, enjoy:
Kiss kiss,
JDX
The New York Burlesque Festival starts tonight. Stay tuned for coverage… but better, yet, come see for yourself.
Come out, come out, wherever you are!
Thursday, Oct. 1: Teaser Party
Public Assembly
Doors Open At 8pm
Get there at 8pm sharp for a very special Dr. Sketchy’s where you can try your hand at drawing a burlesque beauty!
Friday, Oct 2 Premiere Party
The Bell House
Doors Open at 8pm
Show Starts at 9pm
149 7th Street (between 2nd & 3rd), Brooklyn
Saturday, Oct. 3
The Saturday Spectacular
BB Kings
Doors Open at 6:30pm
Show Starts at 7:30pm
237 West 42nd Street, 7/8
NYBF Official Festival After Party
11pm-1am
DJ Hitman Hearn (London) plus gorgeous Go-Go Girls & more!
Free entry for all NYBF ticket holders and performers!
at Lucille’s Bar
VIP ticket holders are guaranteed premiere floor seating, please arrive with your full party!
Sunday, Oct 4: The Golden Pastie Awards
Le Poisson Rouge
Doors Open at 7pm
Show Starts at 8pm
158 Bleecker, Thompson / Sullivan
by J.D. Oxblood
I’ve never really had a strong feeling about New Year’s—other than the general sinking feeling that it was amateur’s night out, that every bar would be packed with misbehaving D-bags, that the drivers on the road lack the training necessary for successful drunk driving, etc. For me, the year begins in September. Accepting that the Gregorian calendar is largely arbitrary, accepting that other traditions dictate a different “reset button”—see Chinese New Year, or Rosh Hashana, which, this year, fell coincidentally in line with my thesis—let’s face it, we’re all trained from a young age to think of the year resetting when school starts. For at least 18 years, September marks the beginning of a new year. Fresh yellow Ticonderogas with perfectly flattened ends, smelling vaguely of sawdust; a spanking new Trapper Keeper; stiff Huskys and Lees; a new schedule to learn and new classes to ditch; new teachers to break in, new students to be eyed by, new girls to check out and assess slutability. For all its impending sense of dread and end, Fall has always smelled like the beginning.
by J.D. Oxblood
I know, I know, we’ve been bad little bloggers. Between my out-of-country exploits in August and the proprietor’s impending nuptials, we’ve been a little slammed. And my “Back to School” story is SO late my editor is threatening to dock my wages—which, being nonexistent, provides little leverage as threat. So consider this notice: We’re coming back, and we’re coming back in force. Brace yourself for the New York Burlesque Festival. And before I rave over Isabella, one WAY belated thanks—Brian Newman, for having us at Duane Park to celebrate the bachelor party. Brian, you got class you ain’t even used yet. Thanks a million for taking care of us—that was a night to remember. (Too bad none of us do.)
So last night I went down to Tribeca to see the lovely, luscious, internet-lascivious Isabella Rosellini. I’ve been in love with her for 20 years, natch, so the chance to see her in person was a draw in and of itself. And yeah, she still looks fantastic. But her latest claim to fame—as if being Ingrid Bergman’s daughter wasn’t enough, or as if anyone could ever forget that scene in “Blue Velvet”—is the runaway internet hit “Green Porno,” now a book, complete with DVD of all the episodes so far. As Is put is so candidly, the internet has no business model, no way for the artists to get paid, “no way to bring the money back.” Seeing how the Redford rubles (Sundance) only foots the production bill, releasing a book is a way for everyone to cash in. And here I am in Tribeca watching “Green Porno” with a bunch of strangers.
I really just have to share this link. As weird as Gowanus is–and it’s definitely weird–even if you dig on the Bell House, any hood where high art is winning the mural competition for the new Lowe’s is a bit off–guess all legit tag artist have been co-opted–ANYHOO, THIS IS HILARIOUS. I stumbled across the Jell-O cheeseburger and fries on thisiswhyyourefat.com, and then clicked through to see the truly wondrous stuff that I missed whilst taking in the Mermaid Day Parade. You can’t be everywhere at once, folks, but whether or not this is art, it’s fabulous. And I want to eat it. Check it out here.
by J.D. Oxblood
Cruised down to DUMBO last week—wow, has that neighborhood changed—to check out the XTO Nude Image Awards Winners at the Farmani Gallery. I had been invited by Robin Bobbe, partner-in-crime of the photographer Leland Bobbe, who had a winning image in the show—a photo of burlesque performer Victotria Privates. If you’ve never heard of XTO, it’s worth checking out. I’m always a big fan of anyone who is willing to give away money to aspiring artists.
By J.D. Oxblood
It’s true I’ve been out of the loop. Day gigs suck, that’s all I can say, and since good writers are now of less value than a foreclosed home in Florida, making a dollar these days is harder than ever. Not that anyone wants to hear me sing the blues. Let’s say I was in Mallorca banging Swedish stewardesses. Or at my pad in the Hamptons. Let’s all believe some lies and wake up happy for a change.
I missed a lot these last few weeks. That batard Madoff got sentenced, and, from what I’ve heard, none of his victims were given the option of kicking him in the nuts. So the justice system is totally screwed. Gay Pride happened, which I totally missed, which is ok, since I have no pride. And the Mermaid Day parade went off without a hitch, despite the ominous sense that the very ground would be torn out from under us at any moment. No one minded the rain—no one who turned out, anyway. It’s the best day of the year in New York City and y’all can’t ruin that. (IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE CONEY ISLAND AGAIN, PLEASE CALL YOUR COUNCILPERSON. CHECK OUT SAVECONEYISLAND.NET—THE SH*T HITS THE FAN JULY 13.)
by J.D. Oxblood
I’ve trolled the sources and, as usual, the best coverage comes from the AP.
It’s a sad day in the world today, as we mourn the passing of one of our favorites, one who made our days a little more pleasant, whether it be from reruns of “Kung Fu,” the forty-second viewing of “Kill Bill,” or even just those fab derivative Yellow Pages commercials. That voice, the voice alone that made the first “Kill Bill” so… enticing, knowing that was Dave-C fondling that sword and never seeing his face. And for children of the 70s, who goaded our friends on the playground with “grasshopper” and “until you can take this Jolly Rancher from my hand” or “until you can walk on the sand box without leaving a footprint”—this man is a part of our Jungian psyche, both an archetype to inhabit and a Campbellian hero to emulate. It’s a sad day.
And then there’s the question of the cause of death.
An undisclosed underground location for Burlesque Revealed
By J.D. Oxblood
It’s well-documented and downright hilarious that Attorney Generals are going after Craigslist CEO Jim Buckmaster for the prostitution ads on the well-worn website. Just last week South Carolina led the charge, offering up this tasty morsel: over a two-year period, sheriff’s deputies in Richland County have made 121 prostitution-related arrests from Craigslist ads, according to department figures provided Tuesday to The State newspaper.
But here, in New York City, despite the bum’s rush on prostitution following Governor Eliot Spitzer’s dramatic fall from grace, chasing after ladies of the night and the Johns who love them is JUST. NOT. GOOD ENOUGH.
That’s all. That’s all I wanted to say. Right here, right now, I’m betting—blind—that whoever plays Sinatra in Martin Scorcese’s biopic will take home the Oscar for Best Actor. Quote me. It’s years off, and maybe it won’t be Leo, but I’m saying, that’s a done deal.
Ruby Valentine
By J.D. Oxblood
City Winery is a big, fat, wooden room that would make a vacationing couple from Vermont feel very at home. High ceilings smattered with rotating fans, a pervasive blonde woodtone, and a stage so deep you could stack the Rockettes 6-deep and they could still kick. We rolled in around 10 to witness the changing of the guard—upper East Side diners were paying the stiff tabs for their undersized tapas & pricey vino as downtown hoodlums played musical chairs, vying for decent seats as they became available, nestling up to the stage and onto the raised dining area in back. This was a big room … could Doc fill it?
Bird of Paradise
He did, but the sound system didn’t. The PA was lacking, but I quickly forgot about it as the shapely Bird of Paradise came on to warm up the crowd with a little gogo to surf music, in a purple sparkly bra and a short skirt cut on an angle, accentuated with bangles and nude fishnet stockings. Babe-o-licious.
By J. D. Oxblood
What does the Kentucky Derby have to do with New York City, you ask? The answer is twofold: the Kentucky Derby is the first of three races in the Triple Crown, which culminates in the Belmont Stakes, held right here on Long Island, AND, as it turns out, there are a lot of Kentucky transplants to New York. And if this blog is dedicated to culture, we should focus our lens wherever culture is found, no matter how hillbilly, depraved or—in this case—well-lubricated.
Handicapping the Derby is always a crap shoot, and this year was no exception. In a race with 20 horses, anything can happen, especially when so many of them are essentially untested. Favorite Dunkirk was going after the Roses with only 4 starts under his saddle. Favorite Friesan Fire was optimism incarnate for trainer “Cowboy” Jones, following a devastating tragedy last year when show horse Eight Belles had to be euthanized seconds after the race with two shattered legs. I Want Revenge, the heavy favorite, scratched the day before the big race. Pioneerof the Nile [sic] never caught my eye because of the wonky spelling—exactly the kind of nonsense that proves I’ll never be an adept handicapper.
By J.D. Oxblood
Through friends of friends I got on the guest list and passed by to check out the hubbub, bub. M2 is one of those Chelsea monstrosities that is everything you would expect—a long frickin’ walk from the subway, an enormous, cavernous room cut up by gargantuan furniture pieces guaranteeing that movement becomes impossible when the joint gets crowded and that no proper dance floor will ever erupt, grotesque hanging structures (in this case, faux-mirror balls constructed by crystals hung in sequence by 50-pound test) designed to remind you of the vertigo-inspiring height of the ceilings (nothing declares opulence in NYC like wasted space), louder than necessary, and a fantastic, state-of-the art lighting setup that is completely underused, like your grandma buying a Hummer and never taking it out of the driveway.
I was in San Diego last weekend, and standing outside of Anthony’s on the Marina, waiting for a table, witnessed two “beautiful” people exit the restaurant. A passerby said, isn’t that Jerry Rice? Sure enough, a busboy ran out for an autograph. I couldn’t believe I actually had a camera on me; if I weren’t so slow on the draw, I might’ve gotten pix of his slammin’ outfit or the slammin’ girl that was with him.
**
JDX
by J.D. Oxblood
Our livery car driver has inexplicitly decided to roll all the way down Flatbush, which is like a Christmas Eve parking lot considering that it’s Saturday night in Park Slope. I’m wearing a gangster-fied pinstriped double-breasted jacket, my editor is in a full tux, and our other accomplice looks like a 1950s cartoon character. We’re rolling with three gorgeous women and a bodyguard; I somehow feel that we’re one gorgeous woman short—I like to ride with a spare.
We arrive at the Montauk Club, designed by Francis H. Kimball and completed in 1891. The story goes that he was inspired by a palace on Venice’s Grand Canal, and the imposing Venetian gothic architecture rises from the banality of the Slope like a monolith in a highlands desert. Stone. Mahogany. Stained glass. My jacket pocket feels suddenly empty—I really should be packing hooch to fully be in character.
Brian Newman and Broadway Brassy at Duane Park Friday April 4 2009
by J.D. Oxblood
We were so drunk off the feeling of great art—oh, and bourbon. Bourbon makes me feel drunk, too—that we decided to carry on and get our asses downtown to drop in on our old friend Brian Newman for his weekly residency at Duane Park.
I don’t feel bad giving Mr. Newman unbridled, overly-enthusiastic, heavy-handed praise for two really good reasons: 1. He’s a badass musician. 2. He’s a truly nice guy. And no shit—he’s really a nice guy. I’m a prick, and I know a nice guy when I see one. Brian was so excited to see us, he bought me a drink—and then he spent the rest of the night calling me “Mr. Oxblood.” So damn RESPECTFUL. And just when I had almost decided to kill everyone under 30.
I think you should go to Duane Park next week, and I think you should get there EARLY. We showed at around 11 and the place was already jumpin’—that is to say, PACKED. And it ain’t nothin’ to fill a space so far downtown on a Friday night. Obviously Mr. Newman’s experiment is catching on, and it’s not for nothing. (Ahem… ready for this one, B? You can quote me on this.) Brian Newman plays the trumpet like a bat out of hell trapped in a mason jar. His freneticism is balanced by a consummate control. It began with his first notes: as the bass and piano steadied the firmament under him, he let go with his “intimidation lick,” appearing almost lazy in his approach, as if to say, “I’m really not working that hard.” That quickly went out the window as his intimidation went from a lick to a full-on scoop of smack-your-mama, and everyone in the goddamn room knew whose show this was.
by J.D. Oxblood
It’s so rare that I make it to a Broadway show—what with most of the Great White Way awash in Disney-fied claptrap, reincarnations of old musicals and old movies reincarnated as new musicals—that we decided to make a night of it. So much so that I actually went out and purchased an umbrella to keep my suit from getting soaked in the dismal, rainy April night. I was excited, yet anxious, because the last time I tried to get my fill of some good, old-fashioned absurdist drama, I was cringingly disappointed: to anyone else who shelled out the big bucks to sit through last years revival of (Harold Pinter’s exquisite test) “The Homecoming,” my condolences. Reeked so bad it took a month to get the smell out of my tux.
The Roundabout Theatre Company’s revival of Samuel Beckett’s anti-classic, at Studio 54, features Bill Irwin and Nathan Lane as Didi and Gogo, with none other than John Goodman as Pozzo and the spellbinding John Glover as Lucky, under the direction of Anthony Page. (FYI: everyone in the previous sentence has won a Tony, with the exception of Goodman, who’s won a Golden Globe.)
God's talking...
By J.D. Oxblood
The MTA announced today that it will be implementing a new announcement system to be broadcast on all trains, in all stations, 24 hours a day. And the voice of choice? Morgan Freeman.
“Come on, let’s go downtown, Trixie and the Monkey are performing at the Slipper Room.”
“No, no… I’m drunk, I don’t have a notebook with me, I don’t have my camera—“
“Let’s just go see the show!”
“Ok, fine, but I’m not working!”
Famous last words. Hear me, O children, as I say verily unto you, once one has started down the path of wickedness, there is, truly, no turning back. And truly, once one has committed oneself to the recording of said wickedness, merely being wicked will never again suffice. Which is a long-winded way of saying, I went to the Slipper Room and totally blew my cover. It had been so long… I was just so HAPPY to be back in a burlesque venue, and the show was so show-stoppingly amusing, and I so show-stoppingly inebriated, that I just couldn’t HELP myself from talking to the performers and generally making a total ass of myself.
R.I.P. John Updike
By J.D. Oxblood
Disclaimer #1: My heart goes out to all the friends and family of the recently departed John Updike. I never knew the man personally, and I do not intend for the following piece to be taken — in any way — as an attack or a lack of respect for the dead or the bereaved.
The first time I ever saw John Updike’s name in print was in a Playboy magazine — early 80s, I’m guessing; it might have been an anniversary issue — under a poem entitled, “Cunts.” One line has stuck with me for over twenty years, and I will quote it here, from memory, leaving it to the skeptics to go hunting for the exact verbiage of said quote because, I’m certain, plenty will never believe me and go hunting for the poem either way:
I pulled a tampon with my teeth
And found it
Not so bloody.
Something about that line truly captured my pervy, pubescent imagination, and the line came back to me in Technicolor detail when I pulled my first tampon with my teeth, circa 1989, and at every tampon I’ve pulled since, with teeth or otherwise. Is this a fitting memory for a man of such stature? Does it matter? It occurs to me that no man can truly dictate how he will be remembered, and I suspect that it is with great gratitude that the dead are remembered at all.
Michael DeCapite at Telephone
by J.D. Oxblood
Last night I stumbled into the Telephone Bar on Second Avenue and discovered that there was a reading series happening in the back room. A true masochist, I decided to check it out.
The first reader was a pleasant surprise. Michael DeCapite read from his book THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD, an outright hilarious piece describing a conversation between two men; one of them has been recommended, by his father, to move into a Veterans retirement home—at the age of 31. DeCapite read smoothly, charismatically, and in a move of programming genius had the audience rolling with laughter for the first 15 minutes. Then he moved into the heavy stuff, a couple of pieces from another novel that described the pain and regret of two blown marriages, told in an almost poetic style. He was naked on the stage, and the audience was rapt.
The X-iest Generation
by J.D. Oxblood
Let’s start wide and zoom in slowly. I was born in the very early 70s, which makes me a member of what used to be called Generation X. Speaking for all of us, as a generation, there is something that makes us completely and totally unique in history: we are the last generation to remember life before the internet and cellular telephones. This is a big deal, kids. The cellular phone and the internet have done more to change the entire landscape of society than anything, arguably, since the internal combustion engine. I’ve always loved the phrase “the best thing since sliced bread” but, let’s face it, sliced bread only changed the way we make sandwiches.
By J.D. Oxblood
Fox News, approx. 12:15 EST: Bill Hemmer and Bret Baier covering the inaugural balls.
Video coverage of President Obama and First Lady dancing at Southern Inaugural Ball:
Obama: Let’s go change America.
(crowd cheers)
Bret: Ok by my count they have one more, is that right?
Bill: One more ball.
Bret: One more inaugural ball. They’ve got the dance steps down, it is down to under a minute, it seems like everything’s being sped up just a bit on the routine, but uh, they have one more and as you see them wave to the southern ball there at the DC armory, uh we will bring you every step of every official ball.
Bill: This time she’s doing the waving and he has his head back behind her head so that the camera’s can’t see and he’s like, “honey I cannot wait to get some sleep.” Don’t you know he was?
Bret: I mean—we were just talking during the break there that uh… I mean it’s kind of like a wedding… a giant wedding—
Bill: On acid.
Bret: Yeah but— (indistinct laughter in background) —times a thousand, you know, if—if—(flubs)
A few unnecessary comments:
1. While “acid” is not one of the famed seven words you can’t say on television, I feel fairly confident that “on acid” is not a phrase newscasters are generally encouraged to use on the air.
2. Who would ever expect a Fox News correspondent to know what “on acid” means?
3. Am I the only pundit in America who’s done enough acid to catch such a reference?
By J.D. Oxblood
“I can promise you, if LAST CALL AT THE STARLINER LOUNGE isn’t one of the most original shows that you’ve ever seen, then I will eat a pack of cigarettes.” With an offer like that, how could I refuse? Yes, that was the inimitable Snuffy Patterson, and I was half hoping the show would suck so that I could watch him suck ‘em down. No dice, but it turns out I still won: he eats a cigarette in the opening as an ad for “Turkish Cigarettes—the cure for halitosis.” The sourpuss face on this kid is priceless.
We’re back at Corio, another night of hopeless debauchery, shaking off the post-holiday season delirium tremens. It’s a Wednesday night and cold enough to freeze the rye on my breath. Seems that all the gorgeous dames in this place only work the Pontani shows; the skirt serving us hooch is looking a little long in the tooth. Maybe it’s a good thing that she’s not in a corset.
Brian Newman and his band loosen the crowd with a couple of standards, starting with “All of Me.” This kid looks about two days past getting his draft card, and so thin you could pick your teeth with him. He can warble, though, so damn well I wondered if the horn in his hand was just a prop. But he made a sucker of all of us and blew the damn thing better than Gabriel. He’s backed by keys, skins, a bull fiddle who can lay down a bass line that walks with a ten incher down the left leg, and a sharp-dressed urbanite blowing a thoughtful motif on a tenor sax.
I settle into a cold one and tried to follow the convoluted plot.
