Paolo Nutini opened up the night, and if he wasn't so sweaty I'd be writing a marriage proposal right now. His songs were purely happy, and he kind of reminded me of the Beatles, only Scottish, a little drunk, and a little nerdier. As he rotated off the stage, Solomon Burke rotated on. The man showed up sitting on a throne big enough to hold an elephant and did not stand up one single time... because he was the size of an elephant. His voice was Barry White sultry though, so the love amped up so much that Mr. T had to remind me that he was the husband and as such, he should be putting his arm around me and secretly getting to second base.
Sometimes I forget.
Things were getting all lovey dovey touchy feely when Madam Blues took the stage. Since she's pushing 70 years old, she sort of hobbled out and immediately sat down on her hip replacement friendly stool. We also settled in to listen to her tell us how it is and were then treated to some of the creepiest old lady porn I've seen in... well... my whole life.
For some reason, possibly because she is crazy, she came out and rubbed herself. Her lower self. And then her upper self. And then she flicked her tongue around the microphone as if to say, "Hey there young boys, there's nothing but magic under these dentures."
It was so bizarre that whenever she made an advance on herself, the entire Bowl responded with gasps of horror and bursts of laughter. I couldn't look away because I could barely believe it was really happening.
Thanks to my FanciPhone, I was able to capture the moment in this triptych I call "Please. God. No." And now, you too, can experience Etta at last.
