Once you reach your mid-twenties it seems, for most, that all self-consciuosness and pretentious irony flies out the window as far as music is concerned. No longer overwrought with anxiety over how your Reba or Steely Dan playlist comes across at the house party or the tattoo shop - even if your crush is in the room - you're finally free to bump that throwback shit that would have, ironically, made you the laughingstock of your Eminem-worshiping, Blink-182-championing youth.
That's where Boz Scaggs (like Reba and The Dan of Steel) comes into play, at least for those not alive or sentient when the blue-eyed soul crooner was dropping hot wax. If hearing the man, born William Royce Scaggs, brings to mind the smell of your mom's Yankee Candles, bubble bath and Shiraz, that's because he was dripping that sweet, throaty cross between Aaron Neville and Kermit-the-Frog-smoothness all over her when she was trying to escape the hell that is raising children, post-Industrial Revolution.
Bringing his honey-bourbon baritone to Gruene Hall this Saturday is the son of a Tokyo Rose, so scoot on over, there's room on this yacht for all! Bring your mom.
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