28th
It’s Gonna Be Tonight
That’s right. This is happening. I’ve talked a lot of shit over the past few weeks, threatening to set aside this and riff about that. No more talk. I’m done bullshittin with y’all. To quote my man Kevin Hart: It’s about. To go. DOWN.
Why I abandoned perhaps the greatest collaborative writing space I’ve ever inhabited this side of OnHoops I’m not exactly sure. Yeah, life got in the way. I work a lot, I travel a lot and, when I’m done, I gotta have my Pops. It’s just that lately I’m finding that I’m listening to a lot of Luther during those vegged out chow sessions, and I don’t know what it means. But I sure as hell know where I can talk about it.
The aforeposted song in particular has had a knack of worming its way to the top of the playlist every time I reach for the refridgerator, enough times to make me wonder whether my PC might be trying to tell me something. You know, other than “Stop fondling me!” So I’ve spent the last couple days sifting through the Vandross discography for answers. You know what I found? Some really good shyte. The live sessions in particular. Mercury must have an empty tub of hair product for every time I’ve ranted and railed against the alfresco listening experience. I guess it’s because in a perfect world all experiences would be as transcendent as this one. (Or when we all trooped to see the Dan a few summers back, at the height of the Yacht Rock craze.) All performers would be as game as Luther who, in his croonversations with band and audience, makes Sinatra’s stage-speech sound like a Brando impersonation. He’s trying to stump his backup singers, he’s making fun of his weight and turning all Cosby while cracking about his own talent. He is owning the moment. Who wouldn’t want to be a witness to that?
And that got me thinking: maybe it’s time to reconsider my position on the live show. No, Luther Vandross isn’t walking through that door. (Friday would have been his 60th birthday. Sad.) Lord knows, you’d probably see and hear him coming if he were. (And then once he’s in—BOOM!—he grabs ya.) But even a 10th of that stage presence would be enough to blow my doors off. So it’s settled: I’m going to consume more raw music, and what better time than the summer to start my beat-ox. I’ll be home over Bastille Day for my best friend’s wedding. We should catch a show.
~ Filibuster Rhymes
