Brother Sal & The Devil May Care

This is perhaps the most delayed post of all the delayed posts in all the blogs in all the world.  I first saw Brother Sal & The Devil May Care weeks ago.  I jaunted down to the Piano Bar one Sunday night in October to find Mr. Brother and his blues-meets-country band delivering their "warehouse gospel" to the many delighted souls crammed into the bar. 

I knew immediately that I wanted to tell the world (or, you know, the two of you that read this blog) about my new discovery: Brother Sal, the ivory-tinkling, husky-voiced troubadour from Virginia.  However, as the two of you know, I did not.  I have gone to see Brother Sal again since that night in October I still did not write about it. 

Here's the problem: I just get too damn busy having a good time. Too busy reveling in the melodies and effect of the songs to pay attention to the titles and specific content so I can accurately detail them here. Too busy dancing to adjust my camera settings, so I end up with blurred pictures like these:

{ The ghost-like figure on the right is Michael Starr, an amazing fiddler.  His fiddling deserves its own post. }

Brother Sal has a gift.  A gift in which my ears and my bootie delight.  However, as with all gifts, it comes with a curse.  Well, a curse on this blog anyway.  His gift disarms and distracts until I am left with only memories of good times and warm impressions of the experience.  I suppose as the South did to the North, I will have to cede to the old adage, "Details be damned."  That is an old adage, right?

So, there you have it.  A half-assed review of a full-assed band.  Full and round and firm. As all good asses should be.  I'm speaking metaphorically, of course.

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P.S. Brother Sal performs every Saturday and Sunday night at the Piano Bar.

P.P.S. I still need suggestions for my Drunk v. Sober comparative!  So far I have LACMA, reading, writing, and running.