There’s a spankin’ new babe in Brooklyn whose sweet stink and brute bawl is kicking my ass off the death train, showing me what it means to be alive.

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His songsmith Daddy swears the 1970’s band Little Feat are the bomb that stopped the war, so his parents named him LOWELL after the wee-footed vocalist, guitarist extraordinaire. No pressure, but this kid has fingers made for plucking your heart out of a string and a howl that will rock you in the middle of the night.

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My man Lowell was born BANG on time, driving the beat with his bombshell accountant Mum who checked into hospital just as Lowell’s blues-grubbing Grandpa clapped for joy in a cab from Laguardia, and his mind-bending Granny flew in from Oz to reunite the band. All this, after a finger-lickin’, banjo-pickin’ shotgun wedding in Tribeca. These gorgeous, deep soul people, my peeps, know how to put on a show.

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Lowell. A song in our hearts. A cry that makes the hipsters of Williamsburg lose their cool. A never-ending party of new-born love, fierce forever love that shatters and heals us, destroys and awakens us, Lowell! Banging our chests to the boom of your drum, the blast of your horn, a piercing shout to bust it out and let it go, people! Like me, be fearless, wild and free.

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Pix courtesy of the Family. Wedding photo by Michael Falco. 

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