In the early morning of the religions we know (the Christian religions) women were bade cover their pates, tresses, for fear that the greater beings watching them from Heaven, the Angels, would become so tempted by the shine and sway of woman’s hair that they would lose their heads and give the earth girls the shag they were so obviously gagging for.
Early in the world we didn’t widely have condoms. So, when the Angels would knock the bottoms out they hoes, they hoes would sometimes give birth to monsters and demigods- the giant Cyclops, for example.
No such monsters will issue from the efforts colliding in the union of Mr. Bravo’s lush musicality and his current willing cadre of fellow traveler musicians. It was a brilliant end-cap to a disappointing night of pseudo-irony and the poorly executed inside jokes of privileged white kids a bit drunk with a little bit of musical knowledge, flush with a willing scene of kids excited to be out and sexy, and just enough self-awareness to know they thought it was funny they were scamming folks out of $8 at the door. To summarize- Joel Bravo/Sex with an Angel: Talented. Opening bands- Fucking idiots, working through some identity stuff, sons of nobility.
Keep it up, Mr. Bravo. Your theatricality is sincere. Your backup singers- (and I wouldn’t just say this because one of them is my roommate)- a superb group that keep your vision vast and pretty. Thanks for getting up on the stage, playing a well-executed set, and not overstaying your welcome. Thanks for trying. Your effort is evident.