New York City ain’t so bad nowadays. It’s brisk and sunny out, plus the daylight stretches until past 7 p.m. In a bigger-picture sense, things look pretty OK as well. The subways run on time, the streets are safe and, thanks to a succession of cape-wearing supermayors, our gutters no longer course with raging torrents of hobo urine.
Yet our friend Freedy Johnston has forsaken us for the warmer (literally), cooler (metaphorically), ironic-mustache-ier climes of Austin. He’s been down there since last November or so, finishing off his I’ll-believe-it-exists-when-it-actually-arrives new record and playing a weekly gig at a club whose name, Momo’s, practically screams “hipster t-shirt!” I think I speak for every New Yorker, or at least those who regularly packed the Upper West Side outpost of Makor to 72.5% capacity during his biannual gigs there, when I say that we’d like him back.
We’ll be much more supportive this time, promise. In fact, I personally guarantee that I will deliver, like, seven paying customers to your next area gig. If they ask me to pirate your music for them, I’ll say no. And we’ll clap politely between songs and keep our mouths shut during them and drink lots of beer and tip our servers generously. Everybody will be richer for the experience.
Come on home, friend. As you so astutely observed in Can’t Sink This Town, today’s FReedy FRiday revelation, this town can’t be sunk. But without you, our musical admiral-type person guy, we’re adrift musically. Or something.
Buy Can’t Sink This Town here.
