Saw Jamie Cullum on Saturday night with my mom…she is very funky and pretty and wacky, also the nicest and most selfless person in the universe! I was a big dumbface on Mother’s Day and didn’t get my act together, so I’m hoping our fun date made up for it. Ironically, Father’s Day was postponed in our fam due to our adventure. The paternal partying happens tomorrow.
Okay, let me get skolerly on yoar azzes 4 won minute. Vocal jazz by those of Caucasian persuasion can often times be pretty cheesy…yeah, this is a stereotype, but dude it’s true. Over-slicked hair, a velour smoking jacket, snaps and claps on 1 and 3 instead of 2 and 4, a snooty overpriced martini in hand, a wistful CD cover possibly featuring loafers, and albums full of AutoTune ubersmoothness. Stuff that this parody is made of, really.
Jamie’s jazz…it was NOTHING like that. It was truly new, killer jazz for this generation. Classic jazz singer/pianists like to cover old Tin Pan Alley songs and obscure ancient Broadway stuff. Obvs that all has its time and place, and most of it’s great in its way too, but what Jamie does is what I think can carry jazz (i mean real jazz, not its fusion counterparts) into the abyss of the 2000s, where everyone and everymusic is kinda doomed.
It’s still ye olde jazz formula of re-interpreted covers, standards, and originals with solos peppered in, but the standards are broken up with beat-boxing, and the covers are Rihanna, Hendrix, and Buckley…all of which Mr. Cullum handled with raunch and jaunt and launch and other “au” words.
His show was greasy. Sandy. Rough. “Regular.” Cheap beers were in hand. Chicks, awkward first kisses, and failed trips to the gym were discussed. Jazz that WE can identify with!
…and the solos were executed in the aisles of the orchestra section. And the drummer resembled Kurt Cobain in style and smile. And the rest of the band were young British hipsters who chuckled bashfully and each played three instruments, switching it up athletically throughout the night. ::swoon::
This one lady thought Jamie needed a sensual massage. He wasn’t that jazzed (HEH!) about it.
So many encores…so much awesome intimate Cullum chat break action. He jumped all over the piano, danced spastically, and sang OFF THE MIC…of course, it carried through the entire venue. The tender ballads made even the frizziest girl in the room–in all her authentic 1980s pumps and tattoo shirt glory–feel like Audrey Hepburn, or some willowy ingenue in a Woody Allen montage scene of hypochondriac love in New York City. (Uh, not like I’m obsessed with those films or anything…)
So my mom and I waited for like 40 minutes outside the venue to meet the band. The venue staff closed the place to give a champagne and cupcakes party to the beyond hoity-toity curmudgeons who dropped lots of green. I bet when they signed those checks, they were like “Can’t wait for those generic-brand supermarket confections!!” Haha. I guess I shouldn’t be bitter; they’re the ones who make it possible for the theatre to stay open.
But we normals were standing outside with puppy faces on, looking into the friggin glass doors of Long Island privilege, and some (fugly) ladies actually shook their heads “no” at my adorable little mama!!! NOT. COOL. I was pissed. I will NEVER shut future fanz out of some bubbly and cupcakes if I have some to give out.
Anyway, we walked back and forth with a bunch of obnoxious band geeks who held up a stupid paper sign that read “WE DROVE HERE FROM GEORGIA” until he (and his GORGEOUS fiancee Sophie Dahl) came out. I told him that when I said to my mom, “I want him to sign my ticket!” she thought I said “sign my TIT,” and she let out a hilarious lil yelp. He laughed.
Please…I’m saving THAT kind of autograph for Mike Einziger!!!
