When rock musicians creep past middle age, it seems like their careers start careening in a number of disturbing directions. Some grow sideburns and a soul patch before heading out on their semi-annual farewell tour.
Some ignore their advancing age and wriggle into a pair of Abercrombie Kids jeans, to disastrous effect. Some sprinkle sequins on top of their sequins and become a Caesar’s Palace caricature, while others abandon making albums in favor of burying their car’s bumper in every stationary object in Long Island County.
And then there’s Nick Lowe.
And now that my heart rate is back to a normal 194 beats per minute (No, that’s normal for me. Because I’m half hummingbird, half Diet Coke), my full review of last week’s Nick Lowe concert has been posted at BitchBuzz.
