You’re in an unknown dive bar, in the midst of the mid-west, just desperate for a
beer and a shot of air-con. It’s barely lit, you stumble multiple times over
chairs and tables before finally letting your legs rest. You’ve had no time
to look up at the stage but this strange, cabaret-sounding raw-vocalist is prancing
around with a pompous backing track and a brass band made up of old
Latino men, like a bizarre collaboration between a drunk singer-songwriter and a mariachi band. It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong. But it’s so right. You’re bowled over, you’re the only one in the joint, but you’re loving it. Everyone else is
missing out. It’s playful, theatrical, OTT, ridiculous, charming, Broadway
(with a Latin tint). The music is all over the place, barely playing in time, as if everyone is trying to play their own solo to the beat of absolutely nothing.
She’s cawing, speaking, but most certainly not singing. It’s as if she’s in front of her mirror, but
it’s so fuckin’ good, you buy another beer and stay there until the end,
chanting “one more song” until close, until you’re forced out. It’s extraordinary, awe inspiring, inspirational. You’re closed off from the rest of the world and sent into a trance, wondering whether you will ever make it back to reality.
beer and a shot of air-con. It’s barely lit, you stumble multiple times over
chairs and tables before finally letting your legs rest. You’ve had no time
to look up at the stage but this strange, cabaret-sounding raw-vocalist is prancing
around with a pompous backing track and a brass band made up of old
Latino men, like a bizarre collaboration between a drunk singer-songwriter and a mariachi band. It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong. But it’s so right. You’re bowled over, you’re the only one in the joint, but you’re loving it. Everyone else is
missing out. It’s playful, theatrical, OTT, ridiculous, charming, Broadway
(with a Latin tint). The music is all over the place, barely playing in time, as if everyone is trying to play their own solo to the beat of absolutely nothing.
She’s cawing, speaking, but most certainly not singing. It’s as if she’s in front of her mirror, but
it’s so fuckin’ good, you buy another beer and stay there until the end,
chanting “one more song” until close, until you’re forced out. It’s extraordinary, awe inspiring, inspirational. You’re closed off from the rest of the world and sent into a trance, wondering whether you will ever make it back to reality.
Drawing parallels to the cawing glam-rock of Ezra Furman and The Lemon Twigs, Jackie Cohen’s debut album is an enthralling, ridiculous, OTT triumph.
Haiku Review
OTT Glam-rock
Broadway theatre, Latin tint
A caw and a screech
🍒🍒🍒
