Bob Malone }-- Reviews

So Bob Malone got right into it with one of those "I know he's your husband, but he don't know I'm your man" tunes. Curly mop raging, Malone was bouncing his feet 5 inches off the floor and banging on the keys so hard a water bottle on the piano was dancing. The crowd started dancing, making use of the open areas at the sides of the stage.

Malone can tell a story. I felt like I was the one in the cheap motel when he sang, "This one's called the Gold Rush Inn, and it ain't no different than the last 10 flea bags I been in... there's cigarette burns on the night stand."

He got kind existential, too, in a "Dharma Bums" kind of way, when he described the frustration of performing on the road and waking up and not knowing where you are. "Wonderin' how these places all look so the same after you'd come so far... These hotel rooms protect my body, but they a danger to my soul."

Bob Malone is a vital musician who has something meaningful to add to the discussion. Not having "hit the big time" so far might have saved him from being corrupted. I can imagine him being thankful he's not famous or rich. "There's CDs for sale out front," he mentioned between songs. "And, uh, I'm not gonna beat around the bush. I need the money."

Coming up at the Upstage are more dharma bums -- Van Morrison's Shana Morrison on May 2, and the Trailer Park Troubadours later that month. I can't wait for the honorable Jack McQuirk weenies-and-bean roast in the parking lot. That IS poetry.