via VH1

VH1 Divas Celebrates Soul
Hammerstein Ballroom
Sunday, December 18

Better than: Whatever Ryan Seacrest is going to cook up for VH1 Soul.

Last night's VH1 Divas taping existed both as a performance and self-contained, 24-hours-out advertising opportunity for its broadcast. (Tonight at 9 ET!) TV tapings are always strange to experience first-hand, given the way they're designed for after-the-fact consumption; there are lots of long lulls in the action for the purposes of commercial breaking/set redesigning, and in "let's all get together and put on a show" scenarios like this one there are TelePrompTers with lyrics ready to assist the under-rehearsed. Despite the breaks and assists, though, this taping didn't have the hermetically sealed feeling of ones I attended during the pre-social-media era—people were encouraged to tweet and Foursquare check-in and let their pals on social media know what they were experiencing via corporately provided hashtag. In the 21st century, after all, all publicity is.

The night's bent toward soul meant that most of the acts on the bill had pipes and cred—Chaka Khan, Mavis Staples, Martha Reeves, and Wanda Jackson represented for the pre-music-video era, while the likes of Kelly Clarkson, Ledisi, Jill Scott, and Jennifer Hudson were among the new-schoolers. Jessie J's tireless, apparently unending promotional campaign also continued here; her new party trick involves her stuttering out words instead of singing them in toto, a tic that serves to both illuminate the bleatiness of her voice and make her seem even more malleable and annoying. She's the opposite of a diva, her jet-black-dyed artifice doing a miserable job of covering up the void within; I expect either a turn to Christian rock or the "mysterious" leak of a sex tape within the next 12 months.

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New Year's Eve is next Friday, which means you probably already missed out on Patti Smith tickets. Wait much longer and there won't be much left to choose from. So, in the interests of being servicey, and in honor of the news that 2010's Most Important Singles Artist, Ariel Pink, will be in a 10,000 square foot Brooklyn warehouse when the clock rolls over to 2011, we thought we'd mention a few (read: a manageable amount of) SOTC-sanctioned shows. One of these is indeed Ariel Pink's; tickets for that--it's at 234 Starr Street--can be got here. $20 buys entry; other selling points apparently include a "$300,000 custom built, all-analogue sound system" and a bunch of Altered Zones-type dudes working it. Your flyer:

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Add another possibility to your NYE Excel chart or however you're organizing this: Everyone's favorite Brooklyn-soul queen is playing everyone's favorite recently rebranded Midtown theater December 30-31. Tickets are on sale here Friday at noon; play your cards right and you could ring in 2011 while dancing with Sharon onstage, as long as you don't get too fresh or anything. For example:

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Try and guess which song she's talking about. Fun eMusic Jukebox Jury piece by Michaelangelo Matos (they sit in her car, he plays a bunch of tunes, she sassily free-associates), particularly when they get into her oft-discussed stint as a Rikers guard:

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Not to draw your attention away from the Grammys' cornucopia of bizarre onstage pairings, but here we have Brooklyn's finest, onstage at the behest of mom-beloved crooner Michael Bublé, flirting only semi-awkwardly through "You've Got What It Takes." Wouldn't have pegged Mike as the dude to get her there, but we'll take it. Beats the hell out of Taylor Swift and Stevie Nicks.

Daptone Soul Revue
Knitting Factory
Friday, October 23

Greetings from the R-for-Retro wing of Slate's infamous DORF matrix, which chides NPR for only spotlighting black music made by those who are Dead, Old, Retro, or Foreign. Verily, Daptone Records has the R on lock, with multiple backing bands conjuring up a slick, lithe, suitably greasy, and only occasionally ill-mannered classic-soul whirlwind, often with a stupendous and wizened singer out front who might well be older than any two dudes in the band put together. Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, of course, are your star attractions, but there are other belters to consider, of equal verve and vintage; we've miles to go before Sharon saunters out to do the Mashed Potato.

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St. Vincent celebrated Prince's headlining set by turning into Jennifer Beales.

Coachella
Friday, April 25 through Sunday, April 27
all photos by Timothy Norris

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Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, "100 Days, 100 Nights" (MP3)

Hugs and Kisses


The Continued Outbursts of Everett True

THIS WEEK: NYC's Sharon Jones Hits the UK

I remember one time, racing backstage to greet (mid-Eighties, perfect Scots amalgam of the Ramones and Sixties girl groups) Shop Assistants, shaking with sweat, annoyed at the futility of expressing in words the headiness of the dance experience.

I felt like a failure: enthusiasm is nothing if not eloquently expressed.

Last Saturday night, Sharon Jones And The Dap-Kings delivered. There was never the slightest shred of doubt they wouldn’t. The subtlest nuances of the CD and record packaging – the gold strap high heels that Sharon wears on the sleeve of their third album, 100 Days 100 Nights, the backlit orange, the lettering, the way the tenor saxophone cuts in just so – led me to believe a while back, and believe fervently. And, of course, the music: anyone can replicate the sequence of notes and rhythm changes and sharp suits of James Brown’s horn section, given enough time and trucker-speed. Anyone can warble their scales in the bath, or hold a note wavering and long until it takes on every semblance of meaning. Anyone can talk deep and low and preacher-confiding over a glitzy array of guitars and horn players, given a fair hearing. That is not what we’re talking about here. (Although, of course, all this was going on.)

As some classic pre-gig conversation went in the urinals beforehand: slightly podgy, late Forties, ‘soul’ type to bearded Forties ex-Mod: “I’m looking forward to this.” “Uh-huh.” “Some real soul at last.” “Damn straight.”

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