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.


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.


My man Lowell was born BANG on time, driving the beat with his brainy bombshell Mum who checked into hospital just as Lowell’s growling 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.


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.


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


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