There’s such a cool cat strut that can come with blues. Cracked alley slink and prowl. You don’t see it much now that Lucille’s gone ghost for good and the dust’s traded its red roots for a polymer hue in the popular canon of passing chicanery but Adia Victoria, man…hot DAMN! This girl’s got that long, slow tremble about her. That deep swelling wonder that underwrites sex as a sabbath and midnight as the hour of absolute truth and I don’t know much of her from Eve but she sure as shit is believable enough in her ragged bone dress and misty string swagger that the longer she plays, the more ready I am to believe everything she says as a gospel truth.
Straight ruddy-eyed swoon.