Nikka Costa
Friday, Oct. 3, at the El Rey
The opening band – Pictures of Jack Johnson, I think? – were fine, though an odd little slice of mellow to open for the shrieking soul voodoo of Ms. Nikka Costa. “Who does the singer look like?” my son asked me. “The guy from Midnight Oil,” I said to his eternal uncomprehending gaze.
Outside, on the El Rey’s smoking patio, a trio of geighs was fabbing it up and talking about the Sarah Palinstravaganza the night before. They agreed that Joe Biden was a Sexy Motherfucker. I bitched about the bartender shortchanging me so that I was out $42 for two Buds and two Cokes. I’d tried to explain it to him, but he didn’t believe me. “Talk to a manager!” they insisted. “That’s terrible!” I wasn’t going to talk to a manager. I was just going to bitch about it until I was all bitched out.
Inside, once Pictures and Sound’s bongwater had been emptied, Nikka Costa and her band of chocolate love (plus a couple of honkies on horns) took the stage. The men were sexy and styley, togged up in vests and scarves, but no shirts, and slouchy ’70s caps. They looked like the Fat Albert gang grew up, hit the gym, and magically found a third dimension.
Costa herself was a flame-haired bitch goddess; her cult wandered about before the show asking how many times you’d seen her, as if she were the Dead. “Just once, and I accidentally made out with some KIIS-FM DJ” elicited head-shaking sorrow.
We didn’t stay for the whole show – the kid was tired, and I was doing my best not to let the bartender’s rip-off ruin my night – but we stayed for near half-a-dozen long funk jams, with Bo Diddley-style repetitions and calls-and-responses (mostly variations on “Give it to me/ Give it to me”), and we stayed for enough of Costa’s Modern Dance ass-shakings and caterwauls to perk us up real nice.
On the way out, I found the extra $20 in my purse. I totally saw that coming.
Published: 10/08/2008
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