Here’s the great Asheville cover band Pleasure Chest’s opening number from last night’s Chico Feo gig featuring Erich Hubner’s killer surf guitar solo.
Pleasure Chest Opening
music video
Jazzy Danielle
Here’s a snippet of the great Danielle Howle from the May 31 iteration of the Singer Songwriter Soapbox at Chico Feo. She currently has a kickstarter campaign to secure funds to record her 16th studio album. You can contribute here.
A good time was had by all.
A Mid-May Night’s Dream
Magical night at Chico Feo.
Here’s a short video of Danielle Howle with Alex on keyboards performed at Chico Feo at the Songwriter’s Soapbox hosted by George Alan Fox.
Pleasure Chest Rocks Chico Feo
What a blast we had digging on Pleasure Chest, an absolutely great show band with an eclectic repertoire of killer covers. We’re talking Booker T, Jimmy Reed, Ray Charles, Erma Thomas, and, drum roll, the Buckinghams. Time won’t let me, no it won’t and by the way, time ain’t on my side, no it ain’t.
Here’s a peek:
The Moore Brothers, Ridiculous and Sublime Edition
Last night, the Moore Brothers, Fleming and Wesley, performed at George Fox’s Chico Feo Music Extravaganza. The elder Moore, Wesley, his head bobbing like, well, like a Bobble Head, recited his poem “Roaring Twenties Redux.”
Wowee, pretty silly.
Roaring Twenties Redux
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
TS Eliot, “The Waste Land”
One-two-three, one-two-three, ow, uh, alright, uh!
Wilson Pickett, “Land of a Thousand Dances”
Once this pandemic is done, y’all, people gonna be hollering siss-boom-bah, packing the tattoo parlors, barbershops and bars, macro-dosing, doing the Hedonism like it’s wa-wa-tusi, dancing on tables, dancing in the streets, there’ll be swingin’ and swayin’ and records playin’, live bands blasting covers past curfew, PO-lice sirens wailing and blue lights swirling, sweatpants discarded, shimmering gowns flowin’, flasks flashin’ in the comet light of the apocalyptic party, alack and alas and all that jazz!
Brother Fleming, on the other hand, teamed up with Robert Lighthouse and David George Sink for a moving tribute to the Charleston Nine.
Here’s an excerpt:
As our late mother was won’t to say “There’s no accounting for taste.”
Charlie Stonecypher and Rik Cribbs at Songwriter’s Soap Box, Chico Feo, 23 November 2020
The festivities ran from six to ten, but in this “edition,” I’m only featuring two performances.* First, Folly Beach’s own Renaissance man, Charlie Stonecypher, bassist, uke thrasher, newspaper columnist, and for the seventh straight year, South Carolina’s Body Board Champion. Hit it, Charlie.
Next, Rik Cribbs, a Charleston legend, taking time out from his Honeymoon to perform.
Happy Thanksgiving, and this year I’m very thankful for George Alan Fox for doing such an excellent job of putting the show together each week. Bravo, George.
*It takes literally hours to upload these videos, hence the brevity. Youtube and I have had a falling out.
Folly Porch Fest 2016
Some of my crew between sets at Porch Fest
Yesterday marked the third anniversary of Folly Beach’s version of Porch Fest, a down-home musical festival where local talent spreads across the island to play in various down-home venues, sometimes literally on someone’s front porch, but more often on a makeshift stage in someone’s backyard.
Yesterday was chilly and windy, hard on the musicians’ fingers. The wind interfered with some of my recordings, which are, alas, very amateurish. Nevertheless, here are two of the acts, Jim Crow and Fleming Moore.
Jim hails for Arkansas where he learned his chops. Among the folks he played with back in the day was Cindy Williams, who goes by “Lucinda” nowadays. In the tradition of Ry Cooder, Jim is a walking, talking, crooning, finger-picking archivist who brings back to life long forgotten gems.
Fleming, on the other hand, is folk singer who traffics in dark apocalyptic visions but also writes songs that display a sardonic humor in narratives dealing with existence along the frontage road of the Interstate of Life.
Welcome to the Trump years!
And once, again, film making ain’t my forte.
You Do Hoodoo 