Remember those Sunday evenings you were so tired and worn out- from, say, helping a friend move, or watching the Lions lose, or just eating junk food… Now you wonder if your promise of going out was such a good idea, since the couch was so much easier to negotiate. Somehow, though, you pulled yourself up by your bootstraps, you escaped the cocoon, and you found yourself in the middle of a life-transforming musical experience! All the stars from the genres you’ve always wished might fuse suddenly line up right in front of you. And because you got up off your butt, you are one of the lucky few in your town to see and hear the chemistry everyone has been secretly waiting for. This is The Stone Foxes.
You feel life through a band that coerces the wail and stomp from the pumping heart. You hear the blues gospel that allows an atheist to believe in the devil. You’re clapping, singing in tongues; you’re possessed. You’re a true believer in a church you left for dead. Wasn’t that Robert Johnson? You shook his hand. Now you’re going to Hell, which must be heavenly if just from the company. You see yourself outside yourself, watching all the fun you’re having. You’ve hardly even had a drink. You feel great. All because you left the house. Thank god you got off your ass and came to see this band!
The Stone Foxes. They keep it exciting- every member sings; every member swings. They switch instruments. They fix impediments. And none of these young men lack the tortured soul of an old blues man. The harp, the stomp, the swing, the pain; it’s more than infectious; it’s deadly. It’s clever and smart and old and polished; it fa-dumps you off your rocker and slaps you off your troubles. It energizes and conjugates; it fires up and brings together. It calms you down before bad weather. It’s a feeling you’ve had before that you want back, and all you can do is buy a track... So you do. And it reminds you:
Don’t miss them next time.
Michael Welchans
Michael Welchans
