In our age of self-proclaimed artists, who is left to idolize? Certainly not the likes of Gaga. Our legends are falling, leaving behind the rebirth and rejuvenation for our obsessions with their immortalized images.
It seemed rather sudden. Grace Jones, New York's 80s Jungle Mother, fiercely leaped out of the past and announced a tour for her latest album: Hurricane, nearly 20 years after her last release. I've developed a particular numbness to live shows. I think I attribute it to a desensitization resulting from the number of shows I've seen in the last 15 years and the lack of soul or ingenuity in many of today's young performers. Without a second thought, I knew I was going to see her perform at the Hollywood Bowl, feeling giddy the moment I got my box seats.
She did not disappoint.
With costume changes after each song, she was a one-woman runway show, inspiring the industry's most jaded stylists and LA's gayest of the gays. She has been outfitted in the same image for the last 30 years and yet it is still cutting edge. Her contralto still powerful after 61 years with her body in the same fashion ... my palms burned from the applause.
I started dj'ing William's Blood (track 2, Hurricane) Aeroplane remix about a year ago, before I even heard the original track. It's a slow dance track, but progressive. By the end of it you'll feel the glorified emancipation that an old baptist choir inspires. The original is just as amazing.
I will forever feel the total loss of sanity from a crowd of 16,000 over the first synth drop on My Jamaican Guy (Living My Life, 1982). Ladies and gentlemen: Miss Grace Jones ...