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National Features >
Village Voice
The Great Walls of Chinatown
With the exception of the electric rice cookers, this Bowery tenement could have come straight from the Nineteenth Century.
By Elizabeth Dwoskin
Houston Press
Getting Off
DUI attorney Tyler Flood wins 80 percent of his trials--even if his clients were 100 percent drunk.
By Mike Giglio
Miami New Times
Park or Die Tryin'
From the homeless parking mafia to the meter fairy, finding a spot in Miami has taken a turn toward the surreal.
By Gus Garcia-Roberts
City Pages
The Baddest Men on the Planet
Straight from the Sam's Club tire shop, Brett Rogers prepares to meet Fedor Emelianenko in mortal combat.
By Bradley Campbell
The Black Crowes
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By Matt Erickson
Published on July 15, 2008 at 11:59am
Often, an artist's answer to ennui is to risk commercial viability by striving to break new, often uncomfortable ground.
For fans, this can be painful to watch, and for Black Crowes fans, it's downright hard to handle. In the roughshod 18-year career of this Southern-soul band, the bro-centric Crowes have soared (sparking an unexpected early-'90s R&B and blues revival) but also blown the bong smoke of amateur, red-eyed poetry and schizo, love-the-world-hate-yourself meltdowns right back in our faces.
Judging by the group's latest, the back-to-basics Warpaint, this Crowes tour will contain more sexy pouting and boozy, rock-god revelry than the pretentious I-found-the-answers-to-life-high-on-the-tour-bus antics that have hindered this combo's recent years.
Rock on? Maybe. Party on? Hell, yeah.
”She Talks to Angels” by the Black Crowes
Now Click This
