Thursday, February 15, 2007

When the Whip Comes Down, Stones song classique about working It on the mean streets, was emanating from that Middling City rock & roll station that embraces not only their steadfast playlist con brio but attendant rock philosophies - machismo, and blue-collarism, for example.
97 Rock, in common parlance, was blaring a bit as Yours Truly was wending about the MC's downtown en route to a Dorothy visit - that quippalicious femme fatale who chops hairs collectively for a living. YT stomped and stomped some more along the Pergo© floor to de-snow and rounded the corner to note that everyone in the floofparlour had disengaged from conversation and was looking up directly - or in mirrors - to see just what in h.e.l.l. was calamitying around the corner. Voi-freakin-là! Moi!

sidebar: (the haircut script)
YT: Hi, Dorothy, it's Nancy.
D: Hi, Nancy.
YT: I woke up today and I hate my hair, can you squeeze me in.
D: Yeah, sure, no problem Nancy, how is 1 p.m.?
YT: Yay! See you then, thanks!

As I listened to Mick's emphatic embrace of the song's phrases I was struck that as a frontman he must like so believe in these repetitive words, as an actor might with a part, to pull off the whole damned presentation. Refrains. Hand gestures. Hip thursts. More refraining.
This all, YT went on to further conclude, is a fine musical thesis to carry into any rock performance or karaoke session. Karaoke might be on agenda soon with some pals who take the big K real seriouslike.
What kills a karaoke presentation worse than just not believing in the lyrics (as Mick must or any other primo frontman/gal), or worser yetter, one's own veracity/profusion/rock&rollness?
Breaking down into a fit of laughter.
That's what.
In a midwestern town YT had a barroom in her grips during a tune. But suddenly the spell was broken, I began to hate the selection and then chortled through the second half of the song, leaving the elevated stage in a somewhat-authentic cloud of disgrace.
I did just regale Kennedy last night with my most triumphant karaoke tale.
I was in Japan, in a private karaoke room with a group.
Table, banquette seating. Killer hi-fi (any ol' joint in Japan has such), killer amenities for such a gathering (read drinks).
YT brought down the high-rise with a sparkling and searing rendition of ABBA's Dancing Queen.
FF to another, later Japan karaoke incident. And I do mean incident.
I had scoped out during the day while making images a few bars.
Later, after some official business, grabbed two artists and made our way to this bar, which I later dubbed Danger Bar as it was festooned with DANGER ZONE plastic tape (in English, assuredly a prized, kitsch touch).
We three sang into the cordless mic for hours and hours, at one point YT getting on top of the bar and strutting along to an early Madonna tune.
Well, when it was time to leave we were saddled with the heftiest of bills.
Not understanding that this particular joint charged per song.
So we scraped together the Y(en) and split.

Moral: know when Art and freedom of expression are just that.

Free, expressed Love.

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