Blackie Blackman, self-styled leader of the Blackie Blackman Boogety Boogety Boogie Band, had a message for his fans between songs on Friday’s set. (The B5 is a regional outfit whose crashpad is about 100 miles from here, though they play in town so often they’re assumed local. Their bassist also went to boarding school in our fair city, if that counts.)
The diatribe for the tribe took almost 20 minutes to deliver, and cut down heavily on the evening’s funk factor. Seems Mr. Blackman had been unjustly detained on the way to the gig, for driving while Blackie. And, incidentally and allegedly, navigating a car through a huge wave of pot smoke behind the dashboard. He should sing the police report next time; it might be more entertaining, though allegedly not as entertaining as the alleged chase the alleged victim led the alleged “racist fuzz” (both of whom, he neglected to mention onstage, were black) on. Sorry to be a news reporter there for a second, but it’s in our blood, which was boiling at nearly as high a temperature as Blackie Blackman’s that evening, though for different reasons.

Elsewheresville: We grant that Blackie Blackman is a frequent target of abuse, and that the local original music community is overwhelmingly white, and largely allergic to funk or hip-hop, which remain largely underground commodities. (Is there a vaccine the club bookers could take?)
When Mr. Blackman assumed his stage moniker legally some years ago, some called it a publicity stunt since the band was just starting to make it in the larger clubs after two years on the college circuit. But, it was counterargued, such an in-your-face identity change, and BB’s natural irascibility, weren’t actually great mainstream selling points. Blackie has been his own biggest obstacle to fame. Being mad at cops isn’t the issue. Choosing the middle of a set to switch to improv political performance art is.

The Jewish fraternity at the college on the hill is holding a dance party Saturday featuring The Figgits, Tranifatts and Wendell Horse—all of which feature members of the frat. (It’s the house with the “All Men Are Dogs” and “Bimbergs Welcome” signs outside. Ask for Ingrid the maid.)… Same night, the Bullfinch handles the dark and dreary winter nights well with Cautioned Phoebe, My Fenimore and Ate the Éclair—that’s two past tenses and a pronoun, so you know it’s Goth to be good… Hamilton’s weekend, meanwhile, tends toward ironic soul, with Don’t Step on That Beetle, The Pippa Pipkins and—really?—The Hurty Gurdies, who can’t help but clear the room of fans of those other two bands…. Dollaire’s? Disaster. Trust us: You don’t want to see bands called Special-When-Lit, Felix Phooey and Mister Gillie. Even if you’re insane and literally want to see singers swinging from the rafters. We’d rather eat the éclair…