By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
When Jones caught dance fever on a cover of James Brown's "There Was a Time" or kicked off her shoes and went on ad nauseam about her dual African and Native American heritage, with steps to match, the band inadvertently provided a stern rebuke: Funk is form, Ma, so dress the part. Jones stomped on, glorious and oblivious in equal measure.
The Dap-Kings's narrow suits were an in-your-face statement of propriety, tryingand failingto divert attention from the primness beneath. For the Time, the tropic-toned numbers are there to tighten up the mess. Black dandy Morris Day is a decade or two off his square; in the meanwhile, it's possible the Time has become Jerome's band. While Morris, in a black crushed-velvet number, cussed up a stormwhat happened to slick talk?his sideman shouldered the crowd, the energy, the corralling of white women. Everything but the music, which was fine, because the fortysomethings in attendance needed no help, certainly not from the band, who gave an adequate performance"The Stick," "Cool," "777-9311," "The Bird"that thrilled only thanks to collective memory.
"Gigolos Get Lonely Too" was the Time's lone moment of genuine pathos, a primer on the perils of aging and the fallacy of ego, as hon est as the slowing of Morris's step. Once was that the Time's sartorial choices were a sinister lure, a cheap trick; now they only code a safe place to transgress. Twenty-eight women were escorted onstage during "Ice Cream Castles," but there was nothing more unruly than the sweat seeping through Jerome's burgundy blazer, top button closed tight.