Listening to “Where It’s At” and reading something by Bangs sent to me by a friend

Somewhere around twenty after ten we cross the threshold at JOJO. I hardly find a decent place to take refuge before I am hit with a one-two punch. First, the jab, I find out he has Sierra Nevada Pale Ale on tap. Then, while I am reeling, he uppercuts me with the most real, honest, true blue jazz I’ve ever heard live. The quintet is made up of a purveyor of drums, one of electric guitar, one of a flame red 5 string electric bass, a keyboardist, and a vocalist with a soul full of rock and a hat full of roll. We are the only white skinned people in the place. This is comforting. We are sitting in the front and I feel more welcome than I ever have in any crotchgrab bar. The front man is moving like Jagger and singing like Prince, or maybe it is the other way around. I am convinced that the man slapping the five string and piping part time vocals must be the bastard child of Charles Mingus and Ella Fitzgerald. I just know it is the most fun I’ve had in a long time, and it beats the shit out of appletini’s at some Patrick Bateman bar.

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One response to “Listening to “Where It’s At” and reading something by Bangs sent to me by a friend

  1. speaking of jazz and whatnot:

    if pat curtin doesn’t come to NYC he’s a he’ll always be the real fucking ducking pussy [FDP]. balls are everything; impossibility is nothing. chatham is the elbow my brothers.

    m m m m m ma ma ma milla!

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