This is an mp3 blog attempting to document the gross amount of music I listen to. About once a day, I'll post something I like. If you're a copyright holder on anything I host, get in touch, and we'll settle things in a steel cage instead of a courtroom.

Friday, July 13, 2007

Large and in charge? Bet your ass.

Goddammit if you don't just instantly fall in love with Big Mama Thornton then you HAVE NO FUCKING SOUL TO SPEAK OF. God, this woman could belt the blues like they were meant to be belt, with balls and gusto and sweat and sexual confidence. It takes only one listen to her version of "Hound Dog" to completely and immediately understand why a young Elvis P. wanted to make it his own. And while I would gladly spend all day expounding on Elvis and why he was killer, but for all his talent, even he could only invest "Hound Dog" with maybe 1/2 the zest 'n' zeal that Thornton seems to spew with the greatest of ease.

Of course, this pony had more than one trick. She could do the juke joint jumpers with the best of them, but she could also wrangle a tear out of the most cynical, worldweary of souls. And that, ladies and gentleman, is the very fucking definition of a well-rounded entertainers. Someone who can make you dance and sob in about a ten minute timespan is a precious artistic commodity and never ever ever EVER take those people for granted. They are as important as the most visionary architect or the strongest political leader. 'Cause you see, brothers and sisters, we are all complicated machines full of tiny bits of EVERYTHING, and the only way we stay sane is by regulating these little bits into strands of consistency. The people like Big Mama Thornton who can, at will, summon different threads of the tapestry that is our innermost fucking being are the people who remind us we're human, that despite our pretensions of neckties and nice furniture and urbane sophistication that we are dirty sweaty animals put on this planet to eat, mate and FEEL.

She was a drunk that played until she died, one of the great performers of this century spending her last night on this world in modern-day flophouse. To all you spindly jagoffs who live in your cocoons of delusion, living off your residuals check, THAT is a fucking musician. The people who sweat it out in bars and basements and rec centers are the ones who mean it. I'm looking at you, Boy George.

Hound Dog:

Black Rat:

Life Goes On:

Me and My Chauffeur:


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