Ahwoohhoooooo Queens at King’s

The truth is, I don’t get out much anymore, being a card carrying old fart, but the other day I was leafing through the Independent speculator and noticed a  picture of Bosstown babes, Mr. Airplane Man.  I didn’t know anything about them but I was intrigued.  I’m a pushover for cute chicks with guitars and this was s’pose to be da blooze, real, gut bucket, down and dirty, deep in the delta blues. Was this possible?  They were, after all, named after a Chester Arthur Howlin’ Wolf Burnett song.  The article said they would be opening for 20 Miles on March 11th at the King’s Barcade http://www.kingsbarcade.com/. I vowed to go. I even noted my calendar. So, the big day arrived and I made sure I got there early, in time to see this guy, whose name I didn’t catch, play some quite amazing sitar pieces, including, he said; “Fly Me to the Moon”.

The girls walked in, pretty much unnoticed.  The “crowd” was tiny, it was Tuesday night, after all.  I sauntered up to the bar, inquired about the art on the walls, got a bottle of H2O and prepared to be shocked and awed. “Johnny Johnny” started the evening off as band and audience began to feel each other out.  These femme fatales play the kind of music that many bands would play if they hadn’t gone into, I’m a musician, paralysis.  Drummer Tara McManus lays down a thumpin’ jungle bunny stomp that Maureen Tucker would be proud of. Margaret Garrett makes a righteous racket that smacks of bored and stroked V8 hot rods laying rubber on

her guitar.  Into their third song, Mr. Airplane Man was in full flight. They play punk’n’rollblues without the slightest hint of pretension.  It is a rare tasty treat to see a band with the kind of abandon that recalls the Cramps, Gun Club, Billy Lee Riley, John Lee Hooker and yes, Howlin’ Wolf.  They have a dense sexy essence; a smoky, gritty melancholy that steams and bubbles up from the stage like a witch’s cauldron, containing many of the same ingredients.  Black cat bone, mojo too.

Things really started to heat up when Margaret strapped on the ancient open tuned Kay and the chrome slide tube.  She broke a string while violently choking an incredible sonic attack from her machine near the end of the set, forever endearing her to my heart.  By the time the Stooges cover encore was finished Mr. Airplane Man had me thoroughly convinced they wanted to be my dog.  These girls are cookin’.  Catch ‘em while they are still raw.

 Visit them at http://www.airplaneman.com/. Pick up a copy of their Red Lite or Moanin’ CD’s

at http://www.sympathyrecords.com/home.shtml. You’ll be glad you did.

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