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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Friday, December 17   >>


Last night, Soulive at the Roxy kicked my ass. Nay. They annihilated my brain. Nay. Insert your hyperbole. It was ridiculous. Add set-long cameos by Nigel Hall and Karl motherfucking Denson and, well, let's just say my body is REALLY sore and my voice is nearly shot.

Maybe it was the setlist, or the musicianship (all members were pushing each other to the brink of musical insanity), or the excitement of seeing these guys for the first time. I don't know. I'd probably owe last night's epicness to the energy from the moment I walked in to the moment I left. It was those things that you just FELT. Like walking into a party that you know is going to crack, or speaking and/or performing in front of a crowd that you already know is in the palm of your hands. Like that.

Not many shows leave me speechless. This one did. When I wasn't dancing my ass off, I was just standing, and staring, with my mouth open, in wonderment that instrumental music is moving a young crowd to its marrow. And not just instrumental music -- but highly jazz-inspired soul and funk pop instrumental music with drawn out jams and super intricate arrangements that demand your full attention.

Maybe it was the fact that everyone inside were like-minded people. People were audible over dropped beats and over solos that made you feel like you were playing them. Or maybe it was just the nasty. It was so fucking nasty. Just dirty. So dirty. Barking bass lines. Distorted organs and clavinets. Denson's signature anti-harmonic frantic melodies. That melting-glass guitar sound. Tight wall-of-sound hits. Or that. fucking. snare. OHMYGAWDIJUSTCAME.

It is the best show I've seen all year, previously held by Maxwell and Jill Scott at Staples some months back. What a way to top the fucking year. Wow. I just got chills again. Party.