The Mark Whitman Band
Thurs Aug 30 at Larry's.

Due to a faulty calendar that listed Sweet Talkin' Jones as the "opening act" for Thursday night's show at Larry's, One-Night Stand didn't get to see an opening band this week. There was no opener. Turns out, Sweet Talkin' Jones is actually one person--a member of the Mark Whitman Band, which I was obliged to watch dutifully for an hour and a half (the band played for three) before leaving. And for the record, I have never been so moved by a night out for this column.

You can't argue with the Mark Whitman Band, whether you want to or not. You have Whitman's masterful, carbon-copy guitar riffage and low, smooth vocals. On lead vocals is Sweet Talkin' Jones, with a strong, fine voice (he's the best singer in the band) and plenty of tenor sax ability. There's another gentleman on tenor sax named Scotty Harris; he's the cool, angry member of the band, and also the least outstanding. Joey Romero plays clean, heavy bass parts, funky and high in the mix. He also takes turns on vocals with a voice that is deep and bellowing. Glenn Ayers plays drums, and doesn't miss a beat. If he does, I don't notice.

This is happy blues. This band is perfect for Larry's, because the clientele is no doubt there for an upbeat and easy bar show. There are many people in the club who even appear to think that the standard entertainment-blend of blues, soul, funk, and rock that the Mark Whitman Band plays is the "real blues." But I'm not offended. There's a place for such thought. In fact, that's exactly what Pioneer Square is here for: Blues 101, the Happy Blues. In that regard, I have decided that the Mark Whitman Band is beyond criticism: a shining star in a tiny vacuum, making a lot of people very happy.

It's the dancers--the insane people up front by the stage--who make this show a moving experience. Not since I went to Mardi Gras six years ago have I seen such decadence and lust for immediate sexual gratification, displayed in a public setting. As Sweet Talkin' Jones intones, "That's why I chose to sing the blues," I'm watching a sexually possessed man slide his hand all over his date's invitingly spread rear-end, hiking her skirt up proudly and revealing shiny underthings.

Another woman, whom I've watched slinking about the room for about an hour, comes up and asks me to dance. I tell her I'm sorry--that I'm working, and I couldn't possibly. "Two minutes," she commands. I refuse again. Behind her, a man dips a woman. Her back arches dramatically as her hair hits the floor and her leg reaches skyward. I can see panties.

I'm afraid the girl asking me to dance will stop at nothing. She stares me down as though we are at war, and I am about to lose. I think about asking her to please behave like a gentleman, though I fear she won't get the joke. I tell her I have a "very jealous girlfriend"--in genuine disbelief at the words that are coming forth from my gay, lying lips. As she walks away, I laugh hysterically at the silly ridiculousness of it all.

I decide that I love the Mark Whitman Band. I decide that everyone has his or her own place in this world, and that while this place is the farthest spot imaginable from mine, it's a fucking hoot to visit.