Here ye, brethren and cistern! What you hold in your frayed mittens is
the first recorded testament of Harold Ray Live, the groover, the
midday mover, the theorem prover, with his special brand of ass-funky
rock'n'soul. But not merely Harold Ray Live, but Harold Ray Live
RECORDED LIVE in front of a specially invited audience bussed in from
Bay Area retirement homes for Mother's Day.
You can practically smell
the simoleons this baby will generate! I'll never forget my first
encounter with the legendary Harold Ray Live, Miami's answer to Little
Joe (and at least half one-third of the Latinaires). It was at the
Farraz Club on Second Street...no, I think it was at a tailgate party
outside the Tijuana Jai Alai Arena, though it might have been (just
maybe) at some hipster shithouse with a bunch of goofs wearing striped
tights and polyester baseball caps.
Anyway, some drunk ofay kept
screaming, "Harold! My Man!" until Harold, in a fine display of his
famed wit, finally yelled, "Will you shut the fuck up?" Ah, golden
And let's not forget the boys in the backroom band: the boss
honk of the squawnk, the whack crack of the rum-tee-tee-tum, the smooth
move of the bu-bu-bu-ba-da, the castrato demidivinity of the ree-ree
da-dahhh, the roller coaster ride of the piree-eep-eep (and let's not
forget what sound the mooly-cow makes!). They're the ones who stretch
the canvas, who stuff the rabbits into the the secret compartments of
the tophats, to wit: the stooges who make the magic possible.
music for the strutting beast within? Absitively! Background music for
some action in your sin-bin? You bet! Foreplay, I mean Foreground music
for pure listening enjoyment? Fuquez oui! Guaranteed better than a poke
in your eardrums with an icepick! If I'm lyin', I'm dyin" ("Zeus gives
no aid to liars," as Homer put it)!