The Soul Sessions

As my DOD, my Uncle Hat, and I were walking back to the car after going to a terrific Joss Stone show in the Xerox Rochester International Jazz Festival, a guy drove up and asked us, essentially, how to get to the Xerox Rochester International Jazz Festival.

I pointed to the general direction of East Avenue and kept walking.

I kicked myself shortly thereafter because I may never, ever again in my life have such an opportunity to real-life deliver one of the greatest punchlines in the history of jokes:


I will be kicking myself for EONS for missing that fabulous opportunity. I, who never lets a “no, but if you hum a few bars” pass, usually to the bewilderment of the youngsters I work with, I, who have become a knee-jerk for “that’s what she said” opportunities; I had perhaps the one and only chance I will ever have to lay down a practice-man-practice, and I blew it.

I am ashamed.

But Joss, man. Joss. I mean, I am not a fierce Joss Stone fan. I clutched up The Soul Sessions when it came out and enjoyed the unique and, yes, sexy as can be quality of her voice; then I noticed ranting that she had this Betty Wright person on her personnel and as a result became a rabid fan of Ms. Betty Wright. So, if I am a fan of Joss Stone for anything, it is for turning me on to the Clean Up Woman.

So I am not a fierce Joss Stone fan. I am familiar with a mere few of her songs. Yet her show was a delight.

There was always a reported energy about this person, a contemporary soul performer who nonetheless embraced a Woodstock aesthetic. Performs barefoot (and yes, she does). Think Dharma of Dharma & Greg if Jenna Elfman could sing like seven of your favorite soul music godesses, starting with Aretha and ending with Ms. Betty Wright. I eschewed the honorific “diva” for a reason. Joss Stone is no diva.

I cannot name most of the playlist but “Super Duper Love,” for which she coerced us all to stand up and dance, and which I ended up doing despite my nature. Joss Stone is lovely, infectious, and fun, and if you don’t fall in love with her a little bit at least once during her show, then out the airlock with you, Cylon.

Round it all out with an encore of “Son of a Preacher Man” and you’ve got a show doc. I think my DOD only fell asleep like three times.

Practice, man. Practice.

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