Beyond one acoustic-to-electric transducer, a friendly mouth organ lived half of his life at The Frequency obscured. Saliva-drenched, beard-battered and hidden, the harmonica — let’s call him Franklin — soon thereafter muttered more than a peep. With 37 rectangular metallic buddies at his side, Franklin began to reed the crowd like a college girl on BuzzFeed. One might say that a certain musician was the puppeteer behind the magic, but Jackson Kincheloe blew it (the harmonica, that is).
Bouncing beside the rusty-wheeled harmonicrafter was Jackson’s mother’s daughter, Arleigh. With the spirit of a family of small passerine birds, Sister Sparrow had an unusual variety of bilingualism. She incessantly translated the language of funk into its neighboring dialect, the tushy-tickling-saul-sauce.
It was a case of mace to the face backed by a racy-paced bass (held and hit by Josh Myers). Downstage left stood two injectors of lax: Phil Rodriguez on the trumpet and Brian Graham on the sax. The venue’s flowing libations added to the baritone’s buzz, yet the tenor of the Dirty Birds’ wetness flowed out of Sasha Brown’s guitar. A third Kincheloe, Bram, kicked and hit things with sticks real good — fixing a neat stage arrangement with patterned personalities.
Sister Sparrow released every drop of her positivity throughout the 18-song setlist. From her choice cover, “The Way You Make Me Feel,” to a dozen other feet-knocker-offers, my favorite was “Mama Knows.” Almost everyone came from his or her mother’s womb, so it’s, like, relevant in today’s culture.