Monday night's Taylor Hicks show left Aftermath with way more questions than answers, mostly of the existential variety rather than the musical. Our minds were blown, and not in the same "Oh man, I finally got to listen to Zaireeka the other night" kind of way that the Soul Patrol may have been hoping for.
Yes, our minds were blown. But in the kind of way when your brain gets catalyzed after you open one dresser drawer too many and find that your beloved grandparents are each filthy leather slaves, or that your dad modeled for an obscure lady mag in the early '80s.
After watching Taylor Hicks last night in the studio last night at Warehouse Live we now know why these hallowed blog halls have been strewn with bitter words from angry Soul Patrollers. Hicks is a modern day Dan Fogelberg, a one-man Bread, and an American Idol anomaly. The man and his band were due to go on at nine, and an hour before there were a good three-dozen people pressed up against the stage like they were waiting for a Led Zeppelin reunion.
Hicks ran through a set of his own Seventies AM lite-pop while throwing in nuggets from Nick Lowe, the Meters, Bill Withers, and Billy Preston. The group's Silver Elvis even managed to thrown down a cover of the Beatles "Don't Let Me Down". We couldn't tell if the crowd was excited to hear an obscure Nawlins track or if they just enjoyed being able to smell the man's dry cleaning. You could stick out your finger and taste the sexual charge in the air. We even think our senior year government teacher was there. But we could have sworn she moved to the Hill Country with her husband after she retired.
It's Hicks' own work that kinda blows, quite honestly. He does just fine churning out serviceable dinner-show covers, the kind that could soundtrack your 40th anniversary dinner, the one where you wear a suede jacket and the missus gets her hair did. It's his original work that gets overwrought and clunky, with every song either rhyming "love" with "above" or "hand" with "man."
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Aftermath tweeted drunkenly all night, so you can follow the tale of the drunken tape here. You can taste the Lone Star dripping off of our moustache, we swear. Going back to bed to dream about Bo Bice...