Wig-sporting, cosmetic-caked Chick Cashman saunters onto the Club Congress stage with the Countrypolitans looking like a cross between some Warhol Superstar and Ziggy-era Mick Ronson and a teenage transvestite hooker swathed in mom's scarves, cologne and the aura of the back room of Max's Kansas City. Cashman's porcelain skin, snake hips and low-slung Gibson suggest a childhood adoration of rock 'n' roll guitar heroes, but his band plays a tipple-laced clamor that shows a satiric worldliness by successfully melding surf with smoky jazz, and blues with hints of glam. All under the pretext of some burlesque theory that says anything can happen -- a tradition that says what excitement there is rests as much in throwaway moments as it does in its... More >>>
Chick Cashman:"Limp wrists? Me? Then whaddya call this between my legs?"