Much like all sweet moments in life, my first brush with Love Jones was an unexpected one. I'd just exited a Fairfax area deli ('tato knish and cherry phosphate, if you must know) and I noticed a vacuum of hipsters crossing the street into a cafe. Five spot? I'm there. Two cocktail minimum? Twist my wrist.

As Love Jones strolled on-stage in their matching poly-weave suits, my first impression was that of booger-eating curmudgeons. Two songs into the set, however, my knee-jerk dismissal gave way to their charm (granted, it's in a fruity, glee club kind of way, but a charm nonetheless). By the end of their full set I was pudding, and my little discovery soon turned into a Thursday night obsession.

You don't have to be a German genius to figure out that any pop combo is only as good as their record collection and I'll bet the Wurlitzer at Casa de Love Jones is filled with some real gems. A shrine to Holland/Dozier/Holland, sure, but it's safe to assume it's also stocked up with the sonorous harmonies of doo wop groups like the Delfonics, and a bit of Tito Puente for spice. And I suppose that's the real issue here, that Love Jones licks up a spectrum of genres and spits them out with their own pop smarts, pure and simple, as catchy as Velcro. They dish up a stylistic stew that's vaguely familiar, yet delightfully different; hotter than Jean Shrimpton, yet cooler than the other side of the pillow. A real quinphonic sensation... okay, okay, I'll stop.

On the right stands Jonathan Palmer, all alone, playing the role of the insufferable coy crooner, while to the far left, guitarist Chris Hawpe occasionally lets loose an aching falsetto that makes you wonder if there's a sporting mishap in his past. Stuart Johnson is a fine, fine pounder of the pagan skins, but let's cut to the chase: what's with the freaky smile, Stu? A sly blend of fear and delight, it's like he's been smoking Doans all day. Filling the void between Duck Dunn and Donald Duck is bassist Barry Thomas who, despite the consoling of his band-mates, still hasn't come to terms with the fact that he'll never get to jam with Lee Atwater. Anyway, regardless of their Boho personages, noisy rock music is still the historiography of the Love Jones generation, especially in the case of middle man Ben Daughtrey (whose post-punk past falls out of the closet on "Paid for Loving"'s intro). Speaking of Ben, it would be a grave error not to tip you off to his percussive talents, for he alone may spearhead the congas as the most exciting new sound in American music. Really.

On both "Fragile" and "Pineapple," Love Jones recall the finest moments of those twin pillars of Philly Soul, Gamble & Huff, while the samba shuffle in “Bacchus Girl” should get young rug cutters the world over out from under their covers. "Warming Trend," with its Beach Boys meets Association lilt, is the musical equivalent of a balloon ride, and the sardonic (nitwit of a) live Love Jones happening is perfectly captured on "Drive-in." Keep in mind, comedy is intoxicating as long as it's a cooperative effort, and sometimes it's hard to tell if the nervous laughter at a Love Jones gig is simply masking whether the kids would like to take a swing at them with a 9 iron (perhaps Ben should lay off the vodka gimlets).

That said, never ever dismiss these five guys as novel, because while Love Jones' tongue may be in their cheek... you'll find it's always in your ear.

-Robb Moore

This site is vintage and is no longer being updated.
It is preserved here for archival purposes only.