He Believes He Can Fly

It may take me the rest of the year to process everything I heard and saw at R. Kelly’s bizarre outing at the Sprint Center on Saturday.  I hadn’t attended a Kelly concert in nine years, a period in which the Pied Piper of R&B made several essential additions to his vast discography.

The first 30 minutes of his maddeningly inconsistent appearance were so disheartening that I cursed myself for wasting $67 on the cheapest available ticket. My interest grew as the concert became increasingly odd. 

An abbreviated list of Kelly’s foibles: He spent a few minutes watching television from an easy chair (pictured).  A woman in the front row ostensibly massaged his crotch for about a minute (thankfully, my view was obstructed).  After his microphone was wrested away during a foray into the audience, Kelly was propositioned by a self-described “thick midget.”  Kelly had an extended discussion with a drone/blimp.  A video demonstrating his prowess as a trick shot hoop star was screened.  A man with an anemic t-shirt cannon shot objects into the audience.

Kelly’s rhapsodic voice belied these oddities throughout the disjointed show.  He sounded phenomenal even though it was unclear whether he was singing over prerecorded tracks or with a live band.  He paid tribute to Prince by playing a recording of “Purple Rain” as he hung his head.   Prince’s tragic death moves Kelly, a man already known as The King of R&B,  to the top rung of a category I’ll call “Most Vital and Brilliant Veteran R&B Artist.” 

It’s a shame that Kelly doesn’t have someone on his team with the authority to help him properly showcase his immense talent.  Here’s Tim Finn’s review of Saturday’s concert.



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I previewed the Middle of the Map Fest’s lineup of Zhu, Vince Staples, Gallant, Ebony Tusks and Blk Flanl.

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I talk about music with Steve Kraske on KCUR every Wednesday at 11:55 a.m.

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My $40 ticket to the Who was- please forgive me- a bargain, the best I ever had.  It took less than ten minutes for the band to eradicate my ill-placed skepticism.  Here’s Tim Finn’s review.

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Terrace Martin’s Velvet Portraits seems to go on forever.  Even so, the best tracks are first-rate.  RIYL: K-Dot, noodling, Curtis Mayfield.

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I recently praised Snarky Puppy at There Stands the Glass.  A few tracks on the live session Family Dinner, Vol. 2 tricked me into believing that the collective was more than the 21st century version of the Stan Kenton Orchestra.  I was wrong.  The new album Culcha Vulcha is RIYL: high school band camp, Doc Severinsen, transcribing solos.

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My friend S. raved to me about Parker Millsap several months ago.  I joined S. on the young Oklahoman’s bandwagon when I heard  the new album The Very Last Day last weekend.  RIYL: Steve Forbert, next-big-(folk)-things, Greg Brown.

(Original image by There Stands the Glass.)

I'm One

The PA system at the United Center in Chicago blared “Baba O’Riley” at a crucial juncture of the fourth quarter of the Bulls-Cavaliers game yesterday.

The moment was reason #3,129 I can no longer listen to the Who for pleasure.  That’s why I was relieved when The Who's appearance at the Sprint Center was canceled last week a day before the concert.

I knew I wouldn’t be working the show, but I felt obligated to show up and buy a ticket.  As a self-centered 17-year-old twit, I completed internalized Quadrophenia.

A lot’s happened since then.


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I reviewed Primus’ return to the Uptown Theater.

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I reviewed Mary Chapin Carpenter’s collaboration with the Kansas City Symphony.

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I contributed a Local Listen segment about Julian Vaughn to KCUR.

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Johnny Gimble has died.  I saw the fiddler accompany country stars a few times and I took in a few sets he led in Winfield, Kansas.

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Guy Carawan has died.

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Jerome Cooper, the drummer of the Revolutionary Ensemble, has died.

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Errol Brown of Hot Chocolate has died.

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Madisen Ward and the Mama Bear were featured on CBS Sunday Morning.

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Only when forced at proverbial gunpoint did I reluctantly listen to the Alabama Shakes’ Sound & Color.  Holy smokes!  RIYL: Some Girls, career artists, My Morning Jacket.  Here’s the title track. 

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Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.  Much of Kamasi Washington’s The Epic struck me as merely “good” during my first pass at the three-hour album.  From the choirs to the running time, it’s just too much.  RIYL: Pharoah Sanders, hype, Joshua Redman.

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Never Were the Way She Was is the first Colin Stetson album that completely resonates with me.  RIYL: chamber music, Hauschka, not a trace of jazz.

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Reason #3,130 I can’t listen to the Who for pleasure- Quadrophenia has become an actual opera.

(Original image by There Stands the Glass.)