14

FRIDAY

Music nerds come in various degrees of maladjustment, but there isn’t a bigger group of social misfits than the “jazz police.” You’d figure that with all the dope being huffed by their preferred artists, these bitter windbags—unwilling to admit that Miles is fucking dead—would mellow out. But no: They’re dicks. These days, if you really wanna rile ’em up, talk about how much you looove Jane Monheit. A phenomenal vocalist who’s persecuted for her age (25) and her name (not Ella) as much as for her looks (hubba hubba), Monheit has been taking shots from the bebop cops ever since 2001’s Come Dream With Me showed up at No. 1 on Billboard. Monheit, with her Rapunzelian hair and coastal-highway curves, has the rare ability in her gasping genre to actually sell lots of albums. And yet, for completely convoluted reasons, the Long Island native with the powerhouse pipes still gets so much guff that it’s a wonder she doesn’t drop everything and do Journey covers. In fact, just to annoy the jazz police, request “Open Arms” at 7:30 and 9:30 p.m. at the Kennedy Center’s Terrace Theater. $27. (202) 467-4600. (Sean Daly)