Gioia was at B.B. King's Blues Club in Times Square, along with a handful of hip-hop artists and human rights activists, as one of the sponsors of a City Council resolution asking the New York City pension fund to divest from Sudan.

“I’ve been working on this for about two years, and its kind of a lonely fight,” Gioia told me backstage before he addressed the crowd.

I asked him why he was interested in the issue.

“Other than I care about justice and human rights?" Gioia asked. "I mean, that’s it. There’s really no local angle to it. We’re a global capital [New York], and I still get that all the time, like, ‘Where is this place?’

"But,” he went on. “The words ‘never again’ have never rang so hollow as they do today. This the first genocide that’s happened in real time.”

Kweli was a bit less focused on Darfur. Before he performed, I asked him why he was there. "The type of music that I make, people automatically associate with this," he said, gesturing to indicate the scene around us. "They just called my office."

It's not that he doesn't care about Darfur, it's more that he thinks there are many worthy causes.

"All around the world there are things that are equally as disturbing, we need to raise our voices for all of these things.”

On the divestment resolution, he was reserved.

“Its very easy to sign your name to all type of things, it’s much harder to actually live by that," he said.

During his performance, Kweli stopped mid-song (after reprimanding the audience for not knowing the words to KRS-One’s "Black Cop") to comment on someone in the front row wearing an Obama t-shirt. You know things are different, Kweli remarked, when “somebody in the front row of a concert is wearing a presidential candidate on their t-shirt.”

Chappelle Resurfaces, Dose.ca, Sept. 20, 2005.

Dave Chappelle entertains at McArthur Court Thursday, Oregon Daily Emerald, Sept. 17, 2005.

Dave Chappelle Returns To Familiar Format, Soundslam.com, Sept. 14, 2005.

CHAPPELLE ENJOYING INTIMATE COMEDY CLUBS, Contactmusic.com, Sept. 14, 2005.

Dave Chappelle Happy to Be Working Clubs, AP/Washington Post, Sept. 13, 2005.

Dave Chappelle's Hitting The Road, Nobodysmiling.com, Sept. 13, 2005.

Dave Chappelle Is Back Onstage: Comedian quietly launches stand-up tour., MTV.com, Sept. 12, 2005.

Dave Chappelle Has Fun In Comedy Club Standup Gig, AP/WCPO.com, Sept. 12, 2005.

Dave Chappelle set to appear at Convo Center, Echo Online, Sept. 12, 2005.

Dave Chappelle to appear in the Pavilion at the ARC, Th California Aggie, Aug. 22, 2005.

Related:
re·clu·sive

—Matt Haber

"Atwater was cool, tick/twitch filled and charismatic...Atwater could be over the top, but he had his own kind of manic grace, which Minarik lacks. Atwater knew how to use people and make them feel good about it.

"I can't picture Minarik playing with B.B. King or with one of the Rolling Stones or dropping his pants for a magazine photo."

Whew!

And you know it's political season when Verna Eggleston, the head of the city's welfare agency, returns from wherever she's spent the last three years. Never mind that her agency is widely viewed as adrift, as this Newsday article politely points out. It's election time, and she's introducing the mayor.

Bloomberg, looking happy and relaxed, laid out some campaign themes: "A leader not a politician...not only the tough decisions but the right decisions...optimism, integrity, and independence." The real theme, however, seemed to be volunteers, and Mike's newly launched website bears that out.

"I'm not asking for your money," he said. "I'm asking for your support, your dedication, and your commitment,"

And speaking of commitment, the elusive uber-guru David Garth made a personal appearance, and we had the pleasure of taking a bit of ritual abuse from a man who returns, say, 3% of our phone calls.

Garth was soon replaced at the door by Kevin Sheekey, who beamed at the crowd, which included his wife, a serious Democrat, who was even holding a sign. He promised to keep the bar open late, as the line stretched toward 7th Avenue and the mayor's sister thanked people for waiting and the mayor departed to what sounded to us like a new theme song: "Ain't No Stopping Us Now."

Nobody could give us a price tag for the event, which also included Mud Truck, the self-described "anti-establishment coffee machine of NYC's East Village," parked right outside. We asked the shaggy guy pouring tasty free coffee how much his services had set Mike back.

"Can you really put a price on a person's soul?" he replied.

Bloomberg's 50,000 volunteers -- and we're assuming that these are real volunteers, not "volunteers" in the same sense that Mike's charity is "anonymous" -- would give him a great comeback to the inevitable attacks on his wealth. His aides have no doubt learned a lot about organizing from the Presidential campaigns. And we don't doubt that there are a lot of people in the city who'd like to be involved, and who like Mike.

One interesting side note, however, is how the Republican National Convention turns out to have been a useful prologue to the campaign. Kevin Sheekey, obviously, is running both operations. But we've also noticed that the head of volunteers for the Convention, Mike Tracey, has moved into the same position on the Bloomberg campaign.

Tracey, according to this story from his NYU student newspaper, was an intern at the Host Committee before going on staff there. He also appears to be an actual Republican, which may make him the only one on the campaign so far.

Sheekey told us Tracey wouldn't be able to talk before tonight, mostly because he's too busy organizing the event. He also told us that they're not using Convention volunteer lists for the campaign.

But they will be able to capitalize on some of the Convention's volunteer infrastructure.

We're told that groups -- young Republican clubs, things like that -- were asked last summer to send the Host Committee spreadsheets of volunteers, ranked A, B, and C according to reliability and dedication. The Convention put the spreadsheets together. But there's nothing stopping Tracey from going back to the same groups, and even asking them to hit "send" again on the spreadsheets. So far, we've seen a mass email from the Metropolitan Republican Club directing its volunteers to contact Tracey directly.

So maybe that whole Convention thing was just practice for the main event. (Just joking, Kevin.)

Anyway, the volunteer fun begins tonight at 5:30 PM at B.B. King's in Times Square.

But the news that The Devil Wears Prada author Lauren Weisberger's second novel has been optioned by Simon and Schuster for $1 million–plus suggests a more layered phenomenon, a veritable psychological strudel. Call it second-degree Schadenfreude, or the pleasure of knowing that, while Ms. Weisberger's friends/enemies are doubtless freaking out, whipping themselves into positive froths of rationalization, self-loathing and Weisberger Weltschmerz (sadness over the evils and injustices of the world), you, not being in her immediate social circle, can analyze the information with crisp impartiality-grace, even.

A cartoon thought bubble of the sicko S.D.S. thought process might read: "Jeez, [insert name of known Weisberger 'friend' and nemesis] is probably feeling really bad today-thank God it's not me." It's downright freeing, if not ennobling.

What sweet relief not to be receiving those odd "sympathy" calls from well-meaning intimates who have read the media gossip and want to "check in" (a.k.a. "hear you unravel"), and not to have to act congratulatory, feigning a jaunty "you go, girl" attitude, etc., all the while privately seething. For we all have our own personal Weisbergers who come and nip at our heels in the night, like small dogs.

But this is Schadenfreude at a cool, objective remove.

"Picture a seesaw where you're in the middle and the two sides are shifting balance," said a 35-year-old child-development expert who lives in the West Village (bugaboos: Katie Roiphe and Demi Moore). "Your position doesn't change, but you can take pleasure in watching the two sides go up and down. And if you wait long enough, most people descend."

-Alexandra Jacobs

A Steady-Rollin' Man

"I was the white, blues Michael Jackson," Joe Bonamassa, the 26-year-old guitarist, said as he talked about what it was like to open concerts for B.B. King at age 12. Mr. Bonamassa was sitting at a sidewalk café on Lexington Avenue on an early fall afternoon, the week before he would open for Peter Frampton at Town Hall on Sept. 25. He had Chanel-imitation sunglasses perched atop his shoulder-length dirty-blond hair and was wearing an ivory polyester shirt, dark brown pants and black New Balance vintage sneakers. He waved away the waiter's offer of bread-twice. Not many Delta bluesmen are Atkins adherents and, indeed, Mr. Bonamassa lives in a Central Park West one-bedroom apartment with his corporate-lawyer girlfriend.

Mr. Bonamassa is a serious name-dropper. He casually talks about "B.B." (King), "Joe" (Cocker), "John Lee" (Hooker) and "T-Bone" (Walker). Since the summer of 1989, when he played a national tour with Mr. King, Mr. Bonamassa has shared stages with Bad Company, Foreigner, the Doobie Brothers, George Thorogood and Joe Cocker, among others.

"It's the lucky few guys who get to tour with their heroes," he said, his voice carrying a Southern twang imported from years on the road playing dusty clubs. (He was born in Utica, N.Y.) "I get to know them and hang out with them."

Mr. Bonamassa is a working musician. His songs don't circulate on the play lists of WPLJ, Hot 97 or TRL, which, he said, "all play about the same four songs." He's built a fan base by touring relentlessly-about 40 weeks a year for the past three years. His 2002 blues-rock album So, It's Like That , hit No. 1 on Billboard's Blues Chart; guttural guitar solos are becoming one of his signatures, evident on his new CD, Blues Deluxe . And even though U.S. Congress declared 2003 the "Year of the Blues," it's still a good time to be playing this music. On Sept. 28, Martin Scorsese will premiere The Blues , the first installment of a seven-part PBS series, including segments directed by Clint Eastwood and Mike Figgis. Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen is one of the executive producers.

Mr. Bonamassa's great-grandfather was a trumpet player in the Glenn Miller Orchestra during the 1940's, and his grandfather played trumpet in a naval band during the Korean War. "My dad, being a product of the late 60's, totally rebelled against jazz and took up guitar," he said. "I followed in his footsteps." He started playing at age 4.

In 1989, when NBC heard that a wee sprite was sharing the stage with B.B. King, they booked him on Real Life with Jane Pauley .

"America knew me as the pudgy little white kid that could play the guitar," he said.

"The show aired on a Sunday in prime time, and within 20 minutes, Columbia Records was on the phone," he said. "They must have looked up our number. I don't know how they tracked me down." Though Columbia didn't sign him, Mr. Bonamassa penned a deal with EMI the following year. He had just turned 13.

"My whole goal when I did my first gig was to make enough money to buy a Super Nintendo and new pickups for my guitar. Oh, and I still had my Communion money to use," he said.

He began to tour, fronting a band of middle-age musicians. At a tribute concert for Leo Fender, the founder of Fender Guitars, Mr. Bonamassa bumped into bassist Berry Oakley Jr., whose father had founded the Allman Brothers. The two got to talking, and together they formed the rock band Bloodline, with a lineup of music royalty that reads like the cast of a Fox reality show. Waylon Krieger, the son of Doors guitarist Robbie Krieger, played guitar, and Erin Davis, the son of Miles Davis, was on drums. Aaron Hagar, Sammy Hagar's son, sang vocals. "But he never made the record, because he was a total freak," Mr. Bonamassa said.

The band didn't totally hit it off, and after two years of touring to promote their eponymously named 1994 debut album and a stalled attempt to record a second album in 1997, Bloodline split. Mr. Bonamassa was 19.

"That was my first problem," he said. "I was like, 'What do I do now?'"

He decided he didn't want to spend the next few years in some regional band playing sweaty dives in Poughkeepsie and Columbus. He had to learn how to sing. After two years training with vocal coach Katie Agresta (she's prepped Jon Bon Jovi, among others), he cut his first solo album, A New Day Yesterday , in 2000.

"When I was in Bloodline, I realized what a bubble I was in," he said. "Then I put my own band together. Even under the flag of Sony music, you go out there and get your ass kicked. You're the third act on a shit-club bill with two other no-names-you're like, 'What is this?' I had to check my ego at the door."

Still, each night he hoisted his ax with a purpose.

"When you think of the blues, you have a very specific thing in your mind about who's playing it, what it's about," he said. "You probably think it's in some smoky dive bar, probably an old black guy, or a drinker and a smoker that has no sense of what's going on. I'm going to show I'm a younger dude playing this stuff.

"You ever watch Crossfire or Hannity and Colmes ?" he asked. "Blues is no different. Everybody has their own idea of what the blues really is. There's people on the left and people on the right. There's people who think that in order to sing the blues, you have to spend 40,000 miles riding some Greyhound bus through the Deep South.

"I pattern myself after B.B. so much," he said. "And Clapton, too. He's a blues guy. To me, Clapton is God. And when I'm 70, I want to be sitting here talking about how I've been playing 2,000-seat theaters all my life. If I can be the king of the 2,500-seat theater-the old-style classic theaters-I'll be the happiest guy in the world."

-Gabriel Sherman

Attention, Editors

O.K., you lazy magazine and newspaper editors, we all know you enjoy using movie titles as headlines. And the more amorphous the title, the better. Eyes Wide Shut ? God, you used that for years. Sex, Lies, and Videotape ? Still using it, and that movie came out when George Bush I was President. And so on.

Now there's a new movie title we just know you're champing at the bit to use: Lost in Translation . With the perfect subhead, you can use it for practically anything. "LOST IN TRANSLATION: Kerry Tries to Focus Message to Voters." "LOST IN TRANSLATION: Iraqi People Still Unsure about U.S. Presence." "LOST IN TRANSLATION: Blown Bunt by Matsui Dooms Yanks."

Since it's pretty cheap and hacky to use movie titles as headlines, we've come up with an arrangement that will make everyone feel better. We're going to institute a LOST IN TRANSLATION headline fee. If you decide to use LOST IN TRANSLATION as a headline, you must pay $5 to the New York World for usage rights. All proceeds will be sent to a charitable organization, maybe something that helps those poor J-students up at Columbia or something. Send the money to: LOST IN TRANSLATION Fee, c/o, New York World, The New York Observer , 54 East 64th Street, N.Y.C., N.Y. 10021.

All previous LOST IN TRANSLATION headline-writers will be billed.

-Ken Moy

"I don't have to work," said the Hardest-Working Man in Show Business, James Brown. "I don't have to make some payments next month, or pay the electrical bill, gas bill or whatever. That's been taken care of many, many years ago. I let my gut feeling make decisions."

Mr. Brown's gut had him in town on Nov. 10, the eve of a two-night stand at B.B. King's nightclub in the heart of refurbished Times Square. And why not? New York has always held a charm for the man who invented the enduring, heavy-on-the-downbeat dance music called funk. Just last month, Mr. Brown shared the stage with Lenny Kravitz at the 2000 VH1 /Vogue Fashion Awards at the theater at Madison Square Garden. Twenty years ago, the half-forgotten performer sparked a comeback at the old Lone Star Café on East 13th Street. And back in 1962, Mr. Brown recorded his career-defining road show on 125th Street in Harlem. The resulting document, Live at the Apollo , remains his highest-charting album ever.

"New York is made up of the little things that meant something–Birdland, Lone Star and all of that!" Mr. Brown exclaimed. But, he said, "what's special in New York is the Apollo Theater. It contributed to a whole race of people–then it contributed to all the young people, who wanted to know where the music came from."

Mr. Brown was wearing a gray suit, a bright purple shirt open at the collar and black suede boots with silver tips. His hair was processed, and his eyebrows were painted on. In a coarse voice roughened by those signature screams and gut-punched exhortations, he talked of his legacy–occasionally referring to himself in the third person–and his upcoming shows.

"Now see, most entertainers won't work in another entertainer's place. But this is B.B. King's, he's a very good friend of mine," Mr. Brown said. "So I'd be happy to play his place anytime and let the people see James Brown and know what a good time is."

Up close, the 67-year-old Mr. Brown looks more the Grandfather than the Godfather of Soul. But his rapid repartee and exuberance contradict the wrinkles and slight paunch brought on by a half-century of shows and tours. He is acutely aware of his pervasive influence on contemporary hip-hop ("Well, rap came from me …") and yet bemoans an unfortunate lack of originality in today's music. Asked how he feels when he hears a James Brown sample spicing a current rap hit, Mr. Brown told Manhattan Music: "Those samples are extensions of me. I'm proud of them, because now I get paid."

Still, Mr. Brown said, "I'm not proud of the stigma it leaves. I'm not proud of the fact that there's no new music. I got kids and grandkids and great-grandkids … [and] we don't want them to come back with no music. They can't be nothing but robbers."

Mr. Brown is an ex-con twice over: first for petty theft as a teenager, and in 1989 for various violent and drug-related offenses. He is now born-again. Praises to God punctuate his conversation. His manager is his pastor, who accompanies him on his travels. And his religion influences his business decisions, such as who gets to quote from timeless funk anthems like "I Feel Good" or "Hot Pants."

"I get about 125 to 150 different inquiries every day on the catalog, for publishing rights, from around the world," Mr. Brown said. "The first thing I look for is, if it's [related to] alcohol or tobacco or pornography or violence, then my office disapproves it no matter how much it pays."

For example, he continued, "Will Smith wanted to use my stuff, a sample for a song, and it would have made it so big, and it would have made us a lot of money … but we didn't like the song." Then there was Chris Rock. "I know his mother," Mr. Brown said. Still, he turned the comic down because "the profanity is what he chose to do."

A gospel sensibility has always informed Mr. Brown's music. His shows still shake with the uplifting charge of a prayer meeting, and his roots go back to a time when rock 'n' roll, soul and funk were part of the same Southern musical brew coming out of juke joints and churches.

"Me, I was hard gospel–jubilee. Ray Charles was also in that," Mr. Brown said. "You know, jubilee is rap." Then he sang a few lines of proof: "Well, God spoke to Jonah–he's a Christian man / Said 'Gotta go down,' he want to save the land. / Jonah didn't want to do what God command / Got him a ticket out of the gospel land."

On Friday night Mr. Brown's faithful made B.B. King's cavernous basement room a shoulder-to-shoulder pressure cooker. Tables and chairs had been removed for a sold-out crowd including veteran soul fans from uptown, teenage funk acolytes and two generations in between. Expectations were high, and Mr. Brown did not disappoint.

At 9 p.m. sharp, the Soul Generals, Mr. Brown's 16-piece, neatly uniformed group–including two drummers, two bassists and three guitarists–broke into a brief number that brought the Bittersweets, his four backup singers, to the stage. Then, clad in a white tuxedo, M.C. Danny Ray–Mr. Brown's perennial sidekick–exclaimed those now-immortal words: "And right about now it is … star time!"

Mr. Brown kicked off in high gear and, over the next 90 minutes, seamlessly weaved one familiar funk motif into another (I counted only four pauses during the entire show). In the first 20 minutes alone, he performed "Get Up Offa That Thing," "Cold Sweat," "Popcorn" and "Gonna Have a Funky Good Time."

No matter that Mr. Brown's gravity-defying splits have been reduced to the occasional stage-spin or microphone-play. His rhythmic accuracy is still perfect, and the mere suggestion of a strut, slide or camel-walk elicited gasps and screams. The applause only subsided as Mr. Brown ceded the mike to two less-than-stellar protegées: Janis Joplin copycat Tomi Rae Hynie, and later Spanish rapper Sara Raya.

But then, what is the James Brown Revue without the "Revue"? It's as much a part of the act as his final routine. While singing "Please, Please, Please," Mr. Brown fell to his knees as Mr. Ray draped a sparkling green cape over his shoulders and led him upstage. As he has done countless times with feigned drama, Mr. Brown threw off the cloak and rushed back to sing; the crowd roared. An extended version of "Sex Machine" pushed the show to its climax, and the singer departed, sweat-drenched and smiling.

The Hardest-Working Man in Show Business? Believe it. Approaching a youthful 70, Mr. Brown's got the timecard to prove it.

– Ashley Kahn

Ashley Kahn is author of the just published Kind of Blue: The Making of the Miles Davis Masterpiece (Da Capo).

Cashed Out

When Johnny Cash recorded his Rick Rubin-shepherded American Recordings (American) in 1994, country music was undergoing a sea change it hadn't seen since countrypolitan reared its pomaded head around 1960. Thanks to Soundscan, record companies had finally been put on notice that if they didn't start recording acts that sounded like the Eagles, they may as well close up their Nashville divisions. Scores of country legends who had previously benefited from benign neglect–the Waylons, the Merles and, for God's sake, even the Willies–found themselves homeless or, at best, on the road again.

Ironically (but logically), the only folk who cared enough to do something about this were the rock royalty that country previously had no use for, but who had been avidly following the bad-boy images of these totemic stars since childhood. So Waylon Jennings fixed himself up with Don Was, Tammy Wynette did the "Justified and Ancient" thing with the K.L.F., and under Def Jam founder Mr. Rubin's protective wing, Mr. Cash recorded as sublime a country record as was released in the 90's with just a quavery voice, an acoustic guitar and contributions from the likes of metal god Glenn Danzig.

It worked, even if it didn't sell. Mr. Rubin's bourgeois danger jones gained legitimacy, and the work of clever songwriters such as Nick Lowe garnered emotional authenticity when interpreted by the Man in Black (who evidently didn't hold a grudge over the Carlene Carter marriage fiasco). And Mr. Cash himself–a religious but honestly conflicted man–contributed some of his darkest songs in decades.

But then Mr. Rubin began to push his luck. 1996's follow-up, Unchained (reportedly recorded at the same sessions) featured Mr. Rubin's Los Angeles party buddies, the Heartbreakers and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, backing up Mr. Cash, and the results are anonymous and lack propulsive bite.

Since then, Mr. Cash's health has slowly slipped away from him (as has the health of Mr. Rubin's now-Sony-affiliated label), but here we have American III: Solitary Man (American), a grab bag of both solo and accompanied tracks that initially gives the impression that this might be an odds and sods from last decade's sessions.

That is, until you listen to the singing, which appears to be of recent vintage. Mr. Cash's always limited range and hurly-burly pitch seems to have been reduced from A-F to A-C. In theory, this should pose no problem for the listener; Mr. Cash was always more Morrissey than Freddie Mercury. But although Solitary Man isn't a vocal embarrassment on the scale of Ray Price's comeback album this year, neither does it possess the rough-hewn tragic glory of Billie Holiday's late-period Lady in Satin . So a song that might seem ready for a radical rethinking, such as U2's "One" (with its glorious original arrangement and idiotic lyrics) ends up losing on both ends.

And what of Neil Diamond's title track? Mr. Cash's solo rendition doesn't sound entirely comfortable. Despite his triumph three decades earlier with Bob Dylan's less sophisticated outlaw paean, "Wanted Man," Mr. Diamond–like Messrs. Cash and Dylan, a Columbia Records superstar in the 1970s–is something of the obverse of Mr. Cash. The pleasures of Mr. Diamond's early work were obscured by his silly pretensions and considerable hubris. Mr. Cash, on the other hand, added gravitas to quite a few pieces of mariachi-fueled tripe in his time. Sometimes he sounded embarrassed, but often he elevated them. At least he was never defeated by the material.

Mr. Cash prevails once again on Solitary Man , even if the often-interesting material here isn't exactly improved by his interpretation or his performance. Nothing against Nick Cave–who, like Mr. Diamond and Mr. Danzig, was underrated as a songwriter in his prime–but "Mercy Seat" was originally an attempt to reach the heights (or depths) of Mr. Cash's greatest work.

Of course, every interpreter needs new material, and you could make a case that the new Tin Pan Alley dresses in black and hangs out at the Viper Room. Still, dressing an aging, ailing legend in the clothing of Nick Cave is just ass-backwards.

–D. Strauss

Occupied Willson-Piper

When Marty Willson-Piper played Luna Lounge for the CMJ Music Festival back in October, he finished the gig feeling a little unsatisfied. Mr. Willson-Piper, 42, is a guy who likes to keep busy. In addition to being the guitarist of the long-running atmospheric Australian rock band, the Church, and a guitarist-vocalist for the British shoe-gazer group All About Eve, Mr. Willson-Piper recently released a solo album, Hanging Out in Heaven (Heyday), which he was plugging at CMJ.

Anyway, Mr. Willson-Piper, who grew up in Merseyside in northern England, compared putting together and rehearsing a band for a single show to "meeting Nastassja Kinski, having sex with her once–her really enjoying it, you really enjoying it–and then you never seeing her again."

Hence, Mr. Willson-Piper has been releasing a little of that pent-up energy via a couple of additional shows in town. He will perform an electric set at Maxwell's in Hoboken, N.J., on Nov. 16, with the band who accompanied him at Luna Lounge: drummer Linda Pitmon and bassist Dave DeCastro of Steve Wynn's quartet (Mr. Wynn, formerly of Dream Syndicate–not the casino business–will also perform that night.) Mr. Willson-Piper also noted that the other members of the Church are in town mixing the band's next album, which is slated to be released next year. In a perfect world, they would show up and join Mr. Willson-Piper on stage. So would Ms. Kinski.

– Frank DiGiacomo