Rickie Lee and the Jones

It was fun seeing Rickie Lee Jones last night. Last night I left the warm/suffocating nexus of my domicile and ventured out to Echoplex to get laid (just kidding). She was 1/2 way into her set, singing to a roomful of people seated just to see her do her thing. At first she was hard to see -- camouflaged by the video projections and piano -- but her voice came out like the twisted trumpet it is. A weird swan. It was quite good to hear that voice. You know it's famous going in -- I heard it at the top of the stairs of the Echo and knew it was her. It's distinct --no question -- but what makes it? That it has a right to exist, to sound tight and nasal, and still feel everything. You can hear the insides of her nostrils rubbing together and somehow it's. . .soulful.

My favorite part of the show was just seeing how her body ("There's enough of me to be a gang.") worked to conjure up sound. . .Arms flapping, fingers flying, hair tossing, wise cracking.

As another journalist might quip (not I) --more of you to love, Rickie, more of you to love (for the record - this is the best answer to anyone complaining of self-fat).

But in summary.

Orphan Grade: Yum Burger