Month: March 2019

The Miracle Bash

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JUNE 4, 2007

It’s probably safe to say that since you’re trolling these pages you’ve given up on the idea of becoming a priest or a nun. You don’t need a personal ad to marry Jesus. Even still, there could be occasions when you wake up on the floor of your hotel room with coke crust on your nostrils, your underwear around your ankles, and a goat bleating in the bathroom and wonder if maybe your life lacks purpose and meaning. Heaven knows goodness isn’t for everyone, but it would be nice to think that every once in a while the roulette ball of your life bounces into the charity slot, if only to pile up some karmic chits to balance out any future hedonistic pursuits (of course, in that mindset, Mother Teresa must have been planning some sort of superorgy). Like most people, you probably want to do good, you just don’t want to do what it takes to do good – sort of in the same way you’d like to be an astronaut but don’t really want to have to take all those math courses. Plus, what if you’re not good enough? What if you take all that math and still end up as an earthbound NASA desk jockey with a ranch house in Clear Lake? F that S. Makes you not even want to try. Still, you have to allow for the possibility that there are some people for whom goodness is its own reward, a special, mutant breed of masochist who gets off on helping others, people who are actually good for goodness’ sake. If these people exist at all, they are exceedingly rare. They are the Michael Jordans and Peyton Mannings of altruism, perhaps born with some genetic glitch that allows them to subvert their id on a molecular level. Unlike Michael and Peyton however, they’re doing it when no one is looking. Thank goodness. They sure do take the heat off the rest of us. They also set the bar unimaginably high. You don’t need that kind of pressure. Chances are you’ll never be a Mother Teresa. You might have occasional moments of selflessness. You might buy the bar a round or toss a couple of quails in the collection plate, but when it comes time to change bedpans for ebola victims, you suddenly have to wash your hair. Besides, won’t it be funny if you get into heaven anyway? If so, feel free to tell Mother Teresa what a chump she was. Wait’ll you see the look on her face when she finds out all you did to get in the pearly gates was to buy a massage wand at a charity auction. Burn! Mind you, there’s no shame in getting some while you’re giving some. By definition charity is never quid pro quo, but very often there is an intangible return on your investment. Ask Caroline Boudreaux. She was blowing a media merger windfall on a trip around the world when she ran smack dab into her life’s calling: helping orphans in India. In less than seven years the organization she started, The Miracle Foundation, has built three orphanages in India and helped hundreds of Indian children receive decent food, health care, and education. That’s a lot of hard work when she could have been washing her hair, but Caroline’s the first to admit she gets a lot of payback. This weekend Sky Lounge on Congress is hosting “The Miracle Bash,” a dance party and Miracle Foundation benefit featuring DJ Archit and DJ Sharma’s Karma. Get your groove on to some Bollywood, hip-hop, bhangra, and dance music and build up some karmic chits for your next hedonistic endeavor.

Republic of Texas Rally

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MAY 29, 2007

There are so many ways to kill yourself: Warm bath, razor blade; big baggie of barbiturates; exhaust rerouted through the car window; DIY hanging; high rise swan dive; shotgun blowjob (a celebrity favorite: Hemingway, Cobain). Yes, there are plenty of stylish and inventive ways to do yourself in, but if you want to go with something daring and spectacular, albeit with a slightly less predictable outcome, buy a motorcycle. Motorcycles are and ever have been … cool – sort of like smoking cigarettes. Combine the two and your coolness goes into warp drive. Feel free to throw in a few tattoos and maybe some leather pants and a leather jacket. Life is short and yours, statistically, will be even shorter. Might as well leave a beautiful corpse. (By the way, if you can afford it, go with Kevlar. Leather staves off some of the road rash, but your undertaker and next of kin will really appreciate the fact that you popped for the Kevlar.) You might want to spend a little extra on your bike as well. While it’s true that pretty much any motorized two-wheeler is cool, generally the bigger the better. Harleys are among the most massive. They’re also known as “hogs,” not because their parts are made of pig iron or as an allusion to the girth of their riders, but rather because during the 1920s a very successful motorcycle racing team in the South named the “Hog Boys” used to take a pig for a victory lap on the back of their winning Harley. Of course, that was back in the days when Harleys actually won races. These days, Harleys are the Clydesdales of the motorcycle world. Just about any lightweight Japanese crotch rocket can outrun a Harley in the quarter, but if you’re looking for a big, obnoxiously loud, anachronism of engineering that will wake up the neighbors and impress tube-top wearing high-school dropouts, you’re safer on a hog. Honda also makes some pretty big bikes. There’s the Goldwing, a favorite of retirees and pragmatists that is the two-wheeled equivalent of a Winnebago. You can fit two people comfortably on a Goldwing, but neither will probably be comfortable with the term, “Biker Bitch.” There’s also the Honda Valkyrie, which is a Harley knockoff of sorts. It’s also the most honestly named motorcycle on the market, borrowing its title from the Norse goddesses who carry souls into the afterlife – proof positive that the Japanese are not without a sense of irony. What next? Maybe the Honda Sumo? Of course big bikes come with big price tags, but you don’t necessarily need a big bike to speed your way to Valhalla. Plenty of people have met their maker on mopeds and electric scooters … and their maker wasn’t surprised at all. If you’re going to be price-conscious, leave the helmet at home and invest in a nice, colorful silk scarf. It will flap around like crazy even at low speeds and serve as an ineffective tourniquet when your leg gets lopped off by a drunk in a pickup. Really, the safest way to enjoy motorcycles is vicariously, and this weekend is the perfect opportunity to do just that when the Republic of Texas Motorcycle Rally rumbles into Austin. Friday night sometime after 7:30pm, a parade of some 60,000 bikes will sputter and fart their way from the Travis County Expo Center and to Congress Avenue. Following the parade will be two stages with live music and scantily clad women. Scheduled acts include Podunk, Butcherwhite, Patricia Vonne, the Meat Puppets, and Patrice Pike as well as performances by Big Star and Sideshow Burlesque and the girls from Coyote Ugly. After taking it all in you may still want to draw a warm bath, but for different reasons.

Emissions From the Monolith 9

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MAY 21, 2007

The weather has been suspiciously nice so far this year. Makes you wonder if part of the arctic ice shelf calved off and is bobbing around somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico. Austin is many things in the month of May, but very rarely is it ever pleasant. Regardless of the size of your rent check, this isn’t Maui or even San Diego. Then again, maybe real estate prices have gotten so high the weather just decided to follow suit. Maybe all of those unfinished $500,000 condos Downtown are creating a “urban cool island” effect, dragging temperatures down in relation to the rise in trendy real estate offerings. It’s an unlikely and unscientific scenario to say the least, but with this kind of anomaly all bets are off. Wouldn’t it be great if we could actually pin it down? If we knew for a fact that this recent run of beautiful weather was the direct cause of, say, global warming? Would we all run out and buy Hummers? Spray our hair into huge pompadours and beehives? Leave the lights on all night? Fart incessantly? It might be worth it. So what if a few polar bears (fewer every year) and Emperor Penguins have to spend some extra pool time so we can enjoy some extra porch time? Seems like a fair enough trade. Both species look like they could lose a little weight anyway, and with the glaciers melting and the water getting warmer, they’re going to need to be in fighting trim – sort of like Al Gore in the 2000 election before he got cheated and decided to become an emissary of doom, which apparently demands queuing up at the same buffet line as the Emperor Penguins. Still, regardless of how ominous Al-mageddon’s pie charts and bar graphs look, things around here are considerably improved. Are we better off now than we were eight years ago? Climatologically, hells yes! The Lord surely works in mysterious ways, otherwise we would know what the fuck happened to all the bees. Maybe we should just roll with it and see where it goes. Of course, you might be one of those people who can’t take too much pleasantness and this shit is about to drive you crazy. Don’t worry, Emo’s has your back. This Thursday through Sunday they’re hosting Emissions From the Monolith 9, a music festival that just moved to town from Youngstown, Ohio (maybe it was cooler here?). EFTM9 should pack Emo’s dark hole with deafening, frog-throated heavy music from bands like Super Heavy Goat Ass, Alabama Thunderpussy, Dixie Witch, and Throttlerod as well as sweaty, fist-pumping tattooed fans. If you can survive four days with the volume knobs pegged on 11, this is your scene. If not, it’s really nice outside.

Benefit for Peter Stopschinski

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MAY 15, 2007

Yes, the world is a beautiful place, but the next time you’re standing dumbstruck, misting up over the pulchritude of that polyethylene shopping bag that’s dancing around in the whirlwind in the corner of the parking lot, give at least a little credence to the idea that someone in the bar might have slipped you a roofie and is about to donkey punch you and steal your wallet. Yeah, that’s the world you’re living in too: a cruel, heartless, dog-eat-dog death match where the ruthless and evil prey on the compassionate and good. Sometimes it’s easy to confuse the two. Sometimes you can be lulled into thinking that being good is good enough, that your evident virtues will protect you from evil and you’ll live out your days in peace and happiness. Wrong. If it didn’t even work for Jesus, why would it work for you? Jesus had God on his side (at least if you buy into the Christian side of the story) and what did it get him? A horrifying, tortuous gauntlet of pain and suffering followed by a slow, agonizing death. Sweet payoff. Is it any wonder the early Christians felt the need to sell resurrection as the sizzle on their burned Jesus steak? Talk about a tough close. There’s a story that needed a Hollywood ending. Can you blame them? Imagine if they’d only offered a couple of months at a timeshare on the Sea of Galilee? Jesus who? Seriously, if you’re going to lean over the plate and take a pitch like for the team, you’d at least like to come home with a win. Sure, it’s a noble endeavor to walk in the path of righteousness, but there is a fine line between “nice guy” and “chump,” and eventually, like Jesus, you’re going to make friends with someone’s enemy and they’re going to nail you to a cross and leave you to die. Yes, people are basically good, but they’re also pretty fucking evil too. They’re murderers and rapists and pedophiles and burglars and swindlers and well-meaning frat boys from Yale who believe they’re doing the right thing. How do they get there? How does someone end up in the right frame of mind to cheat, lie, steal, rape, or kill? Is it because they weren’t held enough as a baby? Not enough lithium in their diet? Lack of intelligence? A chemical imbalance? Video games? Too much coffee? There are no easy answers. The best you can hope for is to try to live a full life without cowering from the unexpected donkey punch – much like Austin musician and composer Peter Stopschinski, who is currently recovering from severe facial injuries suffered while walking to his car from Sixth Street on March 17. Stopschinski had stopped to assist a woman who was having trouble standing up and was jumped from behind and beaten repeatedly in the face. Although Stopschinski was insured, his treatment was not completely covered. This Saturday the Scoot Inn is hosting a benefit to help defray his medical expenses. The show starts at 5pm and features D.J. Lyman, Teddy and Marge, Captain Smoothe, the Invincible Czars, Grimey Styles, Duke, Pong, Delicious Food, Lick Lick, and Cat Scientist. Five dollars lets you walk in the path of righteousness – even if you’re packed in like a sardine.

Grace Foundation Benefit

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MAY 8, 2007

You know, you would be so cute if you just did something with your hair. Have you put on some weight? You look heavier. Are you pregnant? You look tired. Are you getting enough sleep? You look like you just got out of bed. That would explain why your clothes are wrinkled. It doesn’t help that you’re slouching. Stand up straight. Your posture is horrible. You’re going to develop a dowager’s hump. Are you getting enough calcium? Iron? Vitamin B12? How often do you exercise? When did you start smoking? Do you want to die early? Smoking turns your teeth yellow. When was the last time you went to the dentist? Do you floss regularly? You don’t want to get gum disease. Gum disease causes heart disease. Have you had that mole checked? It looks like it’s getting bigger. When was the last time you went to church? Have you met someone new or are you still dating that loser? The one with the tattoos and ear pegs who works at the sandwich shop? The one who smells like foot odor, bongwater, and moldy bread? How can you live in this dump? You should clean up. You can’t leave the dishes out overnight. You’re going to have rats and roaches and God knows what else. Have you considered moving to a nicer neighborhood? There was a homeless man on the corner wearing high heels and a leopard thong holding a cardboard sign that read, “Beer me.” Why don’t they arrest people like that? I hope you’re not drinking too much. Drinking is bad for your skin. You don’t want to become a shriveled up old alcoholic like the man in the leopard thong on the corner. How much do you pay for this place? I hope you carry pepper spray. I don’t think it’s safe around here. You take the bus to work? The bus smells like pee and poor people. You can’t walk alone at night. Are you trying to kill your mother? Poor timing to say the least, it’s Mother’s Day weekend. You need to pull yourself together long enough to make it through Sunday brunch – long enough to convince your mother she was better off not driving to Mexico for a cheap abortion. And would it kill you to pop for some flowers and a card? Probably not. It’s small payback for the woman who ravaged her taint trying to squeeze your hefty noggin out of her birth canal, but it’s better than doing nothing. Face it, there’s no way you’re ever going to repay that debt, but if you’re intent on squaring the deal, if only in a karmic sense, free up your calendar Saturday night for the second annual Grace Foundation benefit at La Zona Rosa. The Grace Foundation helps homeless children get back on the right track and become functioning members of society by providing basic health care, job placement, career training, and college funding – all the stuff you might have taken for granted – for young adults looking to get off the streets. Don’t worry, you won’t have to check homeless waifs for scurvy, all you have to do is sit back, enjoy a concert by Rock Star: Supernova finalist Patrice Pike, a live, onstage painting by Rolando Diaz, food, drinks, and a live auction. Now you really do have a reason to do something with your hair.

Cinco de Mayo Celebration

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APRIL 30, 2007

Saturday is Cinco de Mayo – the day that Mexicans, Americans, Mexican-Americans, and most importantly beer companies celebrate the huge ass whuppin’ Mexican Gen. Ignacio Zaragoza and his ragtag army laid on the French Foreign Legion nearly 200 years ago at the Battle of Puebla. Viva Zaragoza! The French were getting all up in our business anyway, trying to un-unite our states by supplying the Confederacy with guns and delicious, smooth, creamy French butter. Glorious as it sounds, the Battle of Puebla didn’t do much other than piss off Napoleon III, who followed up a year later with a surge of 29,000 more troops. They quickly marched into Mexico City and installed an Austrian prince named Maximilian as emperor. Max basically sat on his throne and dangled spit in Mexico’s face for four more years. Point is, sometimes when you lose you really win. Then again, sometimes when you win you really lose. Four years later Maximilian was executed by firing squad at the orders of exiled Mexican president Benito Juárez. Strike up the mariachis. Still, why do Americans celebrate a holiday that isn’t even a federal holiday in Mexico? Here’s why: The French don’t drink beer. Why? Beer is for winners. Sure, victories are sometimes celebrated with champagne (1998 World Cup), but the champagne isn’t for drinking, it’s for pouring over your teammates’ heads. First you spray down your locker room with champagne and Gatorade, then you go out with your buddies and “have a beer,” which is the Americanese term for binge drinking. The French might drink a little beer, maybe with something light like fish, or poultry, or frog legs in a nice cream sauce, but they hitched their chariots to wine a long, long time ago. They might live longer and thinner, but you’ll never see French people experiencing the joy of a keg stand, beer bong, or a lime wedge forced into the neck of a beer bottle. Sad really. They could probably figure it out (Aggies have), but like the Foreign Legion, their hearts aren’t in it. The bottom line on Cinco de Mayo is that Mexican-Americans needed their own beer holiday, and since beer drinkers don’t tend toward historical research, the beer companies chose Cinco de Mayo as a decent enough excuse to pimp cerveza. Not to mention it has nice assonance. The Irish-Americans have St. Paddy’s Day (snake charming?), the German-Americans have Octoberfest (nice weather?), the Italian-Americans have Columbus Day (apparently the New World fell off the back of a truck), and the French-Americans have Mardi Gras (which is half beer holiday and half fluorescent rum drink holiday, really, but the French are quirky like that). Why shouldn’t Mexican-Americans enjoy their own beer holiday? And if, after stacking their empty Tecate cans into impressive scale replicas of Teotihuacán and Quetzalcoatl, Mexican-Americans feel a blurry sense of ethnic pride, shouldn’t we thank the beer companies that reminded us about the holiday? One way to do just that is to spend Saturday in a bar drinking beer. To that end, Emo’s has an all-day lineup of Tex and Mex bands including Vatos Locos, Roger’s Porn Collection, Ese, Suicidal Failure, Hell’s Engine, 13th Victim, Spitting Bullets, Dickins, Panther Zora, Undertone, Los Hispanos UK, Sober Daze, Los de Verdad ,and King’s of Crime. They’re also having $2.50 margaritas all night long, but you don’t want to rob Peter (Coors) to pay Paul, do you?

Dale Watson Record Release

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APRIL 24, 2007

Nobody could argue that Dale Watson hasn’t lived up to his end of the bargain when it comes to keeping Austin weird. He may not parade around in a chartreuse banana hammock, twirl flowers on Sixth Street, or spout paranoid vitriol on late night access TV, but Dale still has enough quirks to peak most people’s freak meter. Unlike many of his country contemporaries, Dale brings it old skool 24/7. He rocks a Jethro (that’d be Beverley Hillbillies and not Tull) style pompadour, the upkeep of which probably requires vintage hair products found only on eBay or maybe a dusty bottom shelf in the back of some bordertown farmacia. He tools around on a big, fat Indian motorcycle, an anachronistic steel Clydesdale that looks like it was hand-crafted out of pig iron and buffed to a pearly shine by a small town blacksmith from the 1950s. He wears vintage clothes (or maybe they just look vintage when he’s wearing them) even when it’s blistering hot or freezing cold and every song he sings sounds like classic country regardless of what style music he’s singing. Most importantly, he never breaks character because he is the character. Unlike his idols, Watson wasn’t born in a sharecropper’s shack and he didn’t spend time in San Quentin. He’s a city boy born in Alabama and raised in the smoky stank of Pasadena, Texas, but, in the words of country legend David Allan Coe, “If that ain’t country, it’s a damn good joke.” Watson may be a living caricature of a classic country singer, but he’s definitely not a joke. Sure, he’s gone a little batshit crazy in recent years – and with good reason – but no one has ever doubted his sincerity. In fact, one of the things people love most about Dale Watson is that he can’t be anything other than Dale Watson. That’s a rare commodity in a time when most peoples’ intellectual and moral compasses are spinning off the post. Dale’s compass is always true north, and that makes him something of a freak, but maybe a freak isn’t such a bad thing to be – especially not in Austin. As weird as he is, fundamentally Dale is a really nice guy who went through some really hard times and came out reasonably intact. He’s the kind of stuff country music legends are made of, and if country music ever comes back in style, Dale will be carrying the standard. This Friday he’ll be at the Continental Club celebrating the release of his latest CD, From the Cradle to the Grave, which features 10 songs written by Dale in three days at Johnny Cash’s cabin in the Mountains of Tennessee – a cabin owned by Johnny Knoxville. Weird? Yes, but weird is often how legends are made.

Austin Reggae Fest

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APRIL 16, 2007

It’s spring. You should be outdoors. Don’t be a wuss about it, make an Allegra cocktail, grease up with some SPF 45, and find yourself a place in the sun while there’s still enough ozone to keep it from baking you into a corporeal crouton. Soon enough the ice caps are going to melt, and you’ll spend your days on the roof in your sandbag redoubt with an AK-47, picking off Houstonian refugees who appear to be intent on raiding your food supply. After all, everybody knows Houstonians are big feeders. Houston is the only city to threepeat as “Fattest City in America.” That would be all fine and dandy if Houston had spectacular indigenous cuisine like New Orleans or Chicago, but the finest cuisine in Houston can usually be found on an interstate frontage road (not necessarily roadkill) or ordered through a squawk box at a drive-through, so that reasoning doesn’t hold water. What does hold water in Houston is the air, which is why home-cooked meals thereabouts tend to be something marinated – usually in sweat. To be fair, there’s not much worth leaving the air-conditioning for in Houston anyway – food or otherwise. Sure, you can swim in the tepid brown waters of the Gulf or take a careful, meandering stroll along the beach through the dead jellyfish, oil-slick tar, and rusty syringes, but that’s technically only in the resort community of Galveston. In Houston, your best bet for exercise is the mechanical bull at Gilley’s or maybe the stripper pole at Rick’s Cabaret. Outdoor activities are most anaerobic, like smoking. Smoking allows Houstonians to burn up the remaining trace elements of oxygen that the refineries miss. Breathing in a couple packs of Virginia Slims a day is preferable to freebasing refinery emissions. Plus, Virginia Slims have filters. So, if you’re not feeling the urgency to get outside and enjoy what could be the final halcyon days before the apocalypse, sketch up a little mental scenario of hordes of starving, wheezing, sunburned, nicotine-deprived Houstonians thundering toward Austin like buffalo across the prairie, only slower … much, much slower. You may find yourself wanting to stockpile several million rounds of ammo just thinking about it, but you’re probably better off gathering your rosebuds while ye may – sort of like a Hummer owner. Get out there and enjoy Mother Nature while you drive a big rusty metal stake through her heart. One way to that this weekend is to fire up your SUV (the one with the Sierra Club bumper sticker) and four-wheel it down to Auditorium Shores for the Austin Reggae Fest, a two-day event featuring reggae and world music acts from across the US and beyond. Saturday’s lineup features seven bands including Austin’s Grimy Styles and is headlined by the Easy Star All-Stars, a collective of New York musicians responsible for releasing reggae versions of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and Radiohead’s OK Computer. Sunday features seven more bands including Austin’s Mau Mau Chaplains and is headlined by Jamaican artists Morgan Heritage. Entrance is $10 plus two donations to the Capital Area Food Bank, which, if nothing else, may buy you a little more time to fortify your redoubt when the ice caps melt.

Chaparral’s 25th Anniversary Party

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APRIL 9, 2007

Last Saturday it sleeted. In April. In Austin. That can’t be a good sign. This Saturday you may want to pack a Kevlar umbrella for the plague of amphibians that will surely rain down – probably frogs or toads, but you don’t want to rule out Barton Springs salamanders. The Almighty is not without a sense of irony. Who invented irony in the first place, right? It wasn’t George W. Bush, although he would certainly be on the multiple-choice test. So anyway, what next? Will the Colorado River run red? Blood red? Something has to be causing that horrible stench. We’re already up to our ear holes in gnats and flies, which inevitably seems to beget a plague of ineffectual Ziploc baggies filled with water and pennies. Unhealable boils? They’re called herpes. Most estimates show that more than 60% of the population has either simplex 1 or 2. That’s a plague by even the most conservative standards, but don’t go painting your doorpost with lamb’s blood just yet. We still have fire, locusts, and darkness to cross off our lists. Fire is actually the tastiest of the three Taco Bell sauces although hardly spicy enough to justify its name. It is a plague nonetheless (though maybe not as calamitous as their Chihuahua ads) because of the insipid quotes printed on the back of the packet, presumably so TB could print the ingredients in an even smaller, more illegible font. Could be potassium sorbate, could be sodium benzoate, could be pureed locust extract. Taco Bell would certainly need a plague of locusts to fill all those packets, wouldn’t they? If last Saturday is any indication, the Lord will provide. As for the Darkness, they’ve pretty much become passé since their second album tanked, Justin Hawkins went to rehab, and Dan Hawkins’ guitar tech became the frontman. That doesn’t mean they won’t rise like a phoenix from the ashes and unleash a whole new plague of arena rock on us, but it does make it less likely. If you want to hear a truly interesting take on some arena rock, head down to the Continental Club this Saturday night when Jeff Hughes and Chaparral celebrate their 25th Anniversary. No one does a better countrified cover of “Sweet Child of Mine,” or “You Shook Me All Night Long,” but Chaparral has been earning its keep since 1987 by keeping the dance floor packed by playing an interesting blend of traditional country, interesting covers, and well written originals. Any band that lasts more than a year or two in Austin deserves a medal, and by that standard Chaparral deserves a plague of medals – or at least a plague of silver dollars in the tip jar.

Urban Music Festival

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APRIL 2, 2007

If you’re too young to remember the O’Jays, outstanding. You’re right in the Chronicle’s target demographic – or at least on the very fringes of it. If you’re old enough to remember actually dancing to the O’Jays, you’re probably wearing a Medic-Alert bracelet and living in Sun City. Congratulations on scoring a copy of the Chronicle. Kudos as well for actually flipping back to the personals – even if it is just an amusing stopover on your way back to the escort agency ads. Hey, just because your skin has more grooves than an old 45 of “Love Train” doesn’t mean you still can’t get on it every now and then. Right? Doesn’t mean you can’t pop a few Viagra, slip on a Hawaiian shirt (don’t break a hip trying to be hip) and ride the golf cart down to the activity center to troll for some senior strange. At your age, every girl used to be somebody’s girl – maybe even your girl depending on whether you’re keeping up with your Alzheimer’s meds. Even still, you can bet that girl’s got plenty good lovin’, and while no one would argue that the smooth skin, flexibility, and enthusiasm of youth hold their allure, there’s plenty to be said for someone who will fuck you like there’s no tomorrow … literally. That’s probably why you’re always getting cock-blocked by that surprisingly nimble nonagenarian with the dowager’s hump and the tennis-ball walker. He knows: Experience is priceless. He also probably has an original copy of “Brandy” queued up back at his condo. If the preceding sentence confuses you, “Brandy” is sort of an aural roofie for anyone who peaked sexually in the disco era. That’s a huge list, one that probably includes your parents and maybe even their parents. Yes, their musical minds may have wandered into unhealthy realms like arena rock, new folk, jazz, or any of Sting’s post-Police releases, but their asses still belong to groups like the O’Jays, and sweet, soulful songs like “Brandy.” If you want to find out why, beat it over to Auditorium Shores Saturday for the Urban Music Festival. Starting at 11am you get to hear some of the best local jazz, R&B, and hip-hop followed by Atlanta neo-soul singer Anthony David, Minnesota R&B artists Mint Condition, 80s funk band Cameo (word up!), and the aforementioned authors of “Love Train,” “Used to Be My Girl” and “Brandy.” You may still be too young to be experienced, but you can at least show the requisite enthusiasm.