I forget whether it was Black Flag or Aristotle who said that anything that doesn’t change is evil — or perhaps it was both, or neither. However it turns out, Henry Rollins gets my vote.
For the most part people are steady beasts; I guess that’s why we value change. We may revel in our set ways, but we know at heart that too much rut leaves no choice of roads and locks us in to the foolish consistency of the Bureaucrat, the Dirty Tool, the Venal Moron President. Just by way of example, of course. Outside of fashionable hips, when has “narrow” ever been fielded as a compliment?
At the 2004 SXSW music conference a guitar-pickin’ friend pointed us to Jennifer Glass and her showcase at the Pecan Street Ale House, which doesn’t get a link because despite the name it caters to mass-market bad beer — better to call it the Pecan Street Sucky Suds Bar, then we’d know what to expect. Jennifer was a startling beauty who was making her early steps into legit music. She did a pretty enough set; she had a nice sturdy voice and an easy manner on stage.
When her name came up on The Gigometer I was curious to see where intervening time had led her. The music industry on most levels is both kind and violent to beautiful women; there is always someone there to offer the gentle mentoring helping hand, and every dog expects his day, if you know what I mean. Sometimes this works out, and usually it does not.
Last night at Rockwood Music Hall, by now hands-down New York’s best small venue (it even has a nice bathroom), Jennifer was simply spectacular. Her music is the knowing adult pop that lurks behind radio, and in duo format — I didn’t catch the name of her guitar player, who licks and squawks and noises off in a kind of airbrushed Dave Tronzo way — she was completely formed and ridiculously able. All that, and she can manhandle a harmonica like a pro.
There are no weapons of mass destruction at Rockwood Music Hall. You’ll have to find some other excuse to mobilize for an evening out. Jennifer Glass would be a good one.
