Get Freaky with Allan Harris

Pleasure is pliable. That’s one of the most pleasurable things about it. Not only can it be stimulated by chemicals regardless of present context, but it can also be taught to operate relative to one’s life experiences.

In an era in which people have greater access to each other than ever before, the avenues through which one can experience pleasure have multiplied. So too have the avenues through which to experience violent feelings of inadequacy.

Nothing so dulls the sharp chemical squirt of happiness one experiences when encountering brilliant art as the realisation that you have no ability to yourself create the thing that caused you to feel pleasure in the first place. Or so it would seem. But, like we said, pleasure is pliable, the human mind is adaptable and it only takes a few harsh lessons in inadequacy before humanity’s greatest survival trait – perversion – kicks in and you begin to find pleasure in acknowledging your own inadequacy.

There is arguably no greater form of gratification than loudly proclaiming, “I’m s**t at everything!” and wallowing in your own apparent sense of self-awareness. The more brilliant the piece of artwork you’re consuming is, the more perversely delightful it becomes when you reflect upon the fact that you, you disgusting backyard crap silo of a human being, could not create anything close it even if you had endless time and resources.

Great ready to gasp in gross delight, you pervert, with Unplugged with Allan Harris.

Ever since he burst on the jazz scene in the latter part of the twentieth century, The Brooklyn-born, Harlem-based vocalist/guitarist/bandleader/composer Allan Harris has reigned supreme as the most accomplished and exceptional singer of his generation. Aptly described by the Miami Herald as an artist blessed with, “the warmth of Tony Bennett, the bite and rhythmic sense of Sinatra, and the sly elegance of Nat ‘King’ Cole,” the ample and aural evidence of Harris’ moving and magisterial artistry can be heard on his fourteen recordings as a leader. Experience his mastery live.

Masochism isn’t all bullwhips and gimp masks at midnight.

Sure, that’s how they hook you in, but the real perverted, hedonistic, indulgent thrill is at 7.30am in the morning, fully clothed, with complex contemporary jazz blues cranked to a degree that won’t disturb your neighbours and the knowledge that you’re going to live and die a spectacular failure.

 

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