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National Features >
City Pages
Michele Bachmann, Unmuzzled
You don't need to read Sarah Palin's book to hear the ravings of a mad woman.
By Matt Snyders
Miami New Times
Pimp Daddy
The rise and fall of a chubby sex-cult leader.
By Natalie O'Neill
Riverfront Times
Babe 'n' Arms
Tom was a hot-tempered cross-dresser with a garage full of guns--and then he became Rachel.
By Nicholas Phillips
Dallas Observer
The Fight for Texas
Rick Perry and Kay Bailey Hutchison are locked in a battle over the soul of the GOP. They're also running for governor.
By Sam Merten
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
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