(Carolyn “Honeychild” Coleman. Photo by Vadim Shoykhet)

Ever since I was a young boy getting ready for school as Dionne Warwick sang, “I’ll never fall in love again,” I have always preferred the sound of female singers.

Yet, while the soothing voice behind a hundred Burt Bacharach/Hal David compositions had a well- mannered quality, my own taste in female vocalists tends to lean towards the broads. Besides Corinne Bailey Rae and Chrisette Michele, nice girls on the mic don’t do nothing for me anymore.

“That word ‘broad’ sounds kind of old school,” Pub-Diva laughs, hyperactive and sipping on her ninth Red Bull of the day. Yet, for me, broads are no laughing matter. More of a term of endearment than a sexual politics insult, my own interpretation of “broad” comes straight from the mouth of yet another friend.

“You like the kind of girls that can curse, drink, shoot pool, has brains and still looks good in high heels,” she said in her feminist accent. Granted, she was talking the women I hangout with in my wild New York City life, but I’ve adopted the same aesthetic when it comes to listening to music.

From the ecstasy of Cree Summer, Joi and Stephanie McKay to the offbeat otherworldness of Neneh Cherry, Björk and Martina Topley-Bird (her forthcoming Blue God is wonderful), the rhythmic sisters that excite me the most are those with a sense of aural adventure.

Transcending the musical boundaries of pop that confines traditionalists like Janet Jackson and Mariah Carey in their platinum cages, these fem-artists fuse rock, big band, hip-hop, psychedelic, funk and soul to create eternal soundscapes that will sound fresh decades later; hell, Miss Jackson doesn’t even sound fresh now.

Forget about keeping up with musical trends like the plastic girls screaming on HOT-97, these women are exploring brave new worlds and delivering dope material in the process. Too hot to be ice queens and too real to “packaged versions of women’s liberation,” these broads are crazysexycool without being pop puppets. Still, the open secret that these artists share is an ability to align themselves with strong musical collaborators who help interpret their visions into “blissfully liberating” songs filled with angst, laughter, spirals and passion.

Unlike notorious Svengali’s like Phil Spector or Berry Gordy, producers Dallas Austin (Joi), Lenny Kravitz (Cree Summer) and Danger Mouse (Martina Topley-Bird) never come across as tyrants in the lab. In fact, they seem to be more like that best male friend a broad might watch Lifetime movies with, share their secrets over martinis and utilize to help pick-out a flye pair of Jimmy Choo shoes. Of course, the art of making cool, complex tracks together might be a tad more difficult, but I’m sure just a little.

Today, my obsession with broads has me anxiously awaiting the Autumn release of downtown guitarist Honeychild Coleman’s Halo Inside (Come la Luna), looking forward to the seeing Joi, Tamar-Kali and Res’ tribute to LaBelle at the Manhattan Center this Saturday night, wishing somebody would send me the Santogold disc and constantly spinning an advance of This Much is True (Ryko/Eusonia), the debut of alluring Brooklyn-based broad singer Maiysha and her producer Scott Jacoby.

Although their first single “Orbit” (available on iTunes) has a voodoo chile guitar fuelled funk quality that reminds me of the women that once hung tough with Prince—i.e Jill Jones and Taja Sevelle (not that there’s anything wrong with that), the duo proves themselves musical children of the eighties while exploring various sonic landscapes.

With hybrid sounds lacing each track on This Much is True, they tap a few musical touchstones, yet still manages to flow freely without clutter. Whether it’s the big band/disco romp of “Gods,” the Brill building/Broadway musical of “Matter of Pride” or the cinematic rock dream of “Wanna Be,” this disc proudly delivers.

While I could have lived my entire life without hearing a cover of Peter Gabriel’s pseudo-gospel “Sledgehammer,” at least Maiysha tries to bring some freshness to the overwrought anthem. For me, This Much is True is a welcome addition to the broad pantheon.

(This Much Is True will be released on June 24th)

(Maiysha)

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is a harrowing drama that exposes the scarred psyche of the Pollitt family, which has gathered for the 65th birthday celebration of Southern plantation owner Big Daddy. Over the course of the evening, the wealthy Pollitts deal with an ever-growing list of issues, which includes alcoholism, homosexuality, greed, lies, and, ultimately, death. Written by the Pulitzer Prize-winning Tennessee Williams, the melodrama can be a jarring, and sometimes scary, experience if done right.

As one of the landmarks of American theater, the play has been revised more than few times since its Broadway debut in 1955, but this incarnation is the first to feature a predominantly black cast. With James Earl Jones as Big Daddy, Terrence Howard as Brick, Phylicia Rashad as Big Mama, and Anika Noni Rose as Maggie the Cat, the play has been a smashing success since its February opening.

Under the focused direction of Debbie Allen, the play has a few outstanding performances. Anika Noni Rose’s portrayal of Maggie should win the young actress her second Tony Award. Although I am a big fan of Elizabeth Taylor’s 1958 film portrayal of the character, Rose more than makes the part her own. Slinking across the stage like a Siamese cat, Rose entices the audience to feel her pain and support her ambition to win back her husband’s love.

Coming across with more moxie than manners, veteran actor James Earl Jones is perfect as the powerful Big Daddy. While some may see his character as a sexist bully who treats his wife badly, Jones still manages to show Big Daddy as vulnerable. With his trademark baritone, Jones’ theatrical swagger makes it seem as though the role was written especially for him.

Perhaps the play’s one shortcoming is the lackluster performance of Oscar-nominated Hustle & Flow actor Terrance Howard. Although he has shown his ability to handle complex personalities on-screen, especially in the stunning 2004 Crash, his stage chops are a bit uneven. Brick Pollitt is one of the most tragic fictional characters since Shakespeare’s Hamlet, but Howard plays him with a humorous indifference that never translates into pain.

Fortunately, James Earl Jones and Anika Noni Rose more than make this play a must-see experience.

A small crowd of fans moves to the back of Forbidden Plant bookstore as writer Danny Simmons and illustrator Floyd Hughes prepare for a signing of their graphic novel ’85. As Run-DMC’s classic “King of Rock” blares over the stores stereo (Rev Run and mogul Russell are Simmons’ little brothers), there is a buzz of excitement, most of the twenty-somethings waiting for the dynamic duo to sign their books were babies when Simmons was a young man on the Lower East Side scene.

Adapted from Simmons’ own novel Three Days as the Crow Flies (2003), the comic is a throwback that transports the reader to a decadent New York City during its artistic heyday, ’85 delves deep into the psyche of a con man and coke fiend named Crow.

After stealing a few paintings from his best friend, he journeys to the Lower East Side and falls head first into a wild world of art snobs, new-jack hustlers and slumming savants. Like an intoxicated Alice drunkenly tumbling down the rabbit hole into a wonderland of sex, drugs and arty souls, Simmons’ version of the ‘80s is on point.

For those who were not a part of the “old” New York of the 1980s, hanging-out on the Lower East Side was a balancing act of artistic expression and environmental despair. While there were numerous bands, small galleries and artistic spaces, there were also rats the size of small dogs and notorious drug dealers prowling the streets.

Art god Jean Michel Basquiat, who is depicted in a party scene in ’85, is the perfect metaphor for the period. At the height of his fame, Basquiat was the king of the Lower East side: making invocative art, hanging-out with Madonna and spending money as fast as he made it. A few years later, in 1988, the brother overdosed on heroin in his Great Jones Street studio.

While some writers have been a tad sentimental when writing about that period in New York history, ’85 handles well the paradox that made the East Village an exciting and dangerous place. “The Lower East Side was on edge back then,” says Simmons. “Everybody was hyped, and there was just so much going on. There was a melding of race and class back then that doesn’t exist anymore.

“I can remember being at clubs like Save the Robots, and you’d have a break dancer from the projects standing next to a rock star like Mick Jagger; you could go to an art opening and some uptown graffiti kids would be in the same room with David Bowie. For us who were there, it was just a natural thing.”

A comic book aficionado who has been a fan “since the days of Jack Kirby,” doing a graphic novel is something that satisfies Danny’s inner-geek. “I’m one of those guys who buys books every week,” says Simmons, “so to have my own comic book makes me feel like a giddy kid.”

Citing bugged-Brit comic book writers Garth Ennis and Warren Ellis as favorites, Danny recruited respected Pratt Institute professor and artist Floyd Hughes to help bring his sequential visions to fruition.

Having partnered on past projects that includes a Black-version of Mad magazine called Bad, a script for an aborted Green Lantern film and a line of books for Marvel Comics, the bold ’85 is the duos first venture to actually be published.

“It’s kind of funny, because I was still living in England in 1985, so everything I knew about New York during that decade came from Danny’s original novel,” Hughes says. Yet, since he didn’t use photo references either, the Lower East Side becomes a strange netherworld.

“I wasn’t really concerned with being realistic; it was more a matter of making it my own.” In addition to teaching, Hughes also has three kids. “Chaos is a part of my process,” Hughes laughs. “Each page of this book was drawn in the car, in the waiting room of doctors or at my dining room table.”

According to Simmons, this might not be the last we see of Crow. “Russell has been talking to director Abel (King of New York) Ferrara about doing a film adaptation and I’m hoping to also write a sequel.” As Stan “The Man” Lee used to say in Marvel Comics years ago, ‘nuff said.

http://www.dailymotion.com/relevance/search/Danny%2BSimmons/video/x4zmzw_interview-with-danny-simmons-creato_creation

It is a tad disconcerting when one spots a “back in the day” acquaintance co-starring in a major motion picture. Running into old friends on the streets of New York (as I do more times than I care to talk about) is one thing, but seeing a familiar face in a film is something else all together.

Recently I peeped idie-rocker Martin Luther McCoy playing a pseudo Jimi Hendrix character named JoJo in the recently released DVD Across the Universe. I was shocked. Damn, it seems like yesterday when I first met him a few days after he moved from San Francisco in 2001.

Living on the border of Harlem and Washington Heights (his hood was mostly Dominican), Marty was on a mission to deliver his musical message. An obvious fan and follower of Sly Stone, Prince and Marvin Gaye (just to name a few), Marty defined himself by working harder than everybody else.

Anybody who follows the ever-changing canon of Black rock desperados from the Bad Brains to Living Colour to Apollo Heights to Stephanie McKay should recognize Martin Luther. From rocking-out on stage at CBGB’s to touring with the Roots to enhancing planet pop with his own brand of guitar-laden rock/gospel/funk on the underrated disc Rebel Soul (2004), the boy has been doing his thing.

Yet, much to my surprise, I never knew that acting was part of his repertoire.

A complexly clichéd musical gem directed by Julie Taymor, Across the Universe utilizes Beatle’s songs to weave a celluloid quilt of sex, drugs, Vietnam, protest marches and, of course, rock ‘n’ roll. If anybody else had overseen the film it might had been as lame as the script wanted it to be, but Taymor’s interpretation of the corny material sparkles.

As a rare case when style over substance is a good thing, Across the Universe is a guilty pleasure for pop culture junkies who dig the swinging sixties. Since the film is a cinematic valentine to a fantastical notion of what the decade represented, I will excuse the trite use of Marin Luther’s sensitive Hendrixesque character as a representation of counter-culture Blackness.

Yeah, brother Hendrix was a guitar god blaring electric feedback while laughing in the face of society as he strummed his Stratocaster, but perhaps filmmakers will one day also realize the ax contributions of Ike Turner, Curtis Mayfield (rarely cited as a master guitarist), Bobby Womack and Muddy Waters as well.

Introduced on screen while white bluesman Joe Cocker sings a stirring version of “Come Together,” Marty’s character JoJo takes a bus into New York City after attending a relative’s funeral. Soon, strolling through the gritty Manhattan streets with a guitar slung over his shoulder, it’s inevitable that he will soon wind-up in Greenwich Village, loving a fine white chick and playing in a rock band.

From his processed doo to the multicolored threads, Martin Luther brilliantly channels JoJo’s groovy aesthetic with a naturalistic presence that contributes to the beautiful texture of the movie. From his scene-stealing performance during the “Oh Darling” scene to his stunning version of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” the Bay Area homeboy more than holds his own.

Across the Universe is an imperfect film filled with beautiful Beatles music, and wonderful performances. I hope that this movie will be the perfect jump-off for Martin Luther’s film career as well as making more people aware of his music.