It’s true. The verdict is in. The jury of your peers has decided. New York is better than whatever city you are in currently. The damages awarded? Rubbing it in your face.
What other city can you go to a Blues concert on a Tuesday night, and have the headliner play for 4 and a half hours? Oh, hey Memphis, Nashville, all other joke southern cities, I see you waving your hands, and sure, maybe on the Blues point alone, you have got me. But when you can enter into a venue for $5 a see a phenominal show, and at 3 in the morning, be shaking the lead singer’s hand on the way out of the bar, you know you’ve done it.
Terra Blues was the venue, Slam Allen Band was the show. Sultry blues to make you cry, shredding twangy riffs and soloes to lift your spirit. A bassist who may or may not have been “sleep bassing” (like sleep walking, but while playing the bass like a pro), and a drummer who is called “the Baron” (nuff’ said). Oh, and an organ player by the name of Papa George (his real name). Together, the Slam Allen Band brought the hits, and put on a “jowel-opening” good time.
Covering the likes of Jimi Hendrix and Otis Redding, Slam and his bunch laid some Blues knowledge on the dying Blues scene in New York City. During the show, Slam went out into the crowd (with his wireless guitar), and began to hand his axe to some old-timers at the bar, who inadvertently were even better than him. Like a modern dance off, these giesers showed us young bucks that they still had what it took to tickle the six string.
Set 1: 10:30 pm – 12:00 am (Highlights include: 8 minute guitar solo, followed by a broken string, where the band played, while Slam walked through the crowd, out the front door, and showed up through the back, emergin on stage with a fully fixed guitar)
Set 2: 12:15-1:15 am (Highlights include the crowd quieting just before Rich yells “you got to loosen up those jowels!”)
Set 3 (The Professional Partier set): 1:30 - 2:15 am (Highlights include, guitar, bass, drum, and organ solos. This is wheret he band literally just showed off. There were only about 8 people left in the place. I felt like I was with family)
The Downfall: Isn’t there always one person at every show you’ve been to that just makes you want to die? Where do these people come from? These loud talking, arrogant bastards…
Sitting at the table next to us was a “homeless man’s” version of Bill Murray. This guy wouldn’t stop yammering throughout the entire show. And his phrasings became decidedly more obscene and offensive as the drinks kept arriving. He was running a marathon of the conversational gamut, from NCAA picks, to having lunch with his father, to innapropriately speaking of the girlfriends of people at other tables.
I’m positive this man was a terrorist. He had his foot up on the chair in front of him, would not shut up, and was simultaneously having a chew in the bar. An absolutely unprecedented display of failure.
I think this picture sums up where “Bill’s” night was headed.
A man at the end of his rope. Check your local obituaries, and local gutters.
Aside from the unwiedly commentary of a man headed for a drainage ditch, Slam Allen led us to the Blues Promised Land. On a night where I thought I’d be in bed by 1 am, I was soothed into a murky state of bliss, singing along with Slam in sorrow, sorrow that Bill Murray’s surrogate would soon meet his eventual demise. Sorrow coupled with intense pleasure at the thought of Bill, dead.
Oh, and what other city can you get a pint at the same place that Abe Lincoln once drank at, where the only options for drinks are “Dark or Light”? McSorely’s is the name. And New York City’s the place to be.
Move to New York City, people.
