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.

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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