Ed. Note: The Screaming Eagle of Soul is a man in demand of intimacy. He stinks of it. Sweats it. Bleeds it. Howls it from the gates of hell to the highest mount in the heaven and has since well before El Jefe and I were even so much as a stye in our pops’ eyes. So it makes all kind of sense that he would roll his firebrand through The Roxy where I, way back when, learned the absurdity of separating rock and rollers from the rabble that congregate to extol their virtues thanks to the BOREDOMS and a Heineken; nothing was ever the same again.
And I could go on, at length, about the man behind the voice that healed a thousand hearts and inspired at least twice as many pregnancies, but Charles Bradley is Charles Bradley is Charles Bradley. Dig? If you know, you know and if you don’t by now, I can’t set you hip. So let’s just forego the formalities of talking the once in a lifetime experience of shaking hips so close to a living legend, and give a little love to this band called Junk.
Junk is the new sonic iteration of dudes who’ve been in Wires on Fire, Slang Chickens, Only You, Girls, etc. and they bash out the retro-fitted soul punk hits like no one outside of SoCal can, should, or would dare because California is the one fertile desert where weirdly perfect dreamboats can make their fix a fury worth making your sweet, hard loving in.
Now please dig, if you will, these pictures.