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M O N D A Y
Most of the stories in the Post’s Style section are composed by clueless dingbats. Style’s most egregious excess in recent memory occurred in Richard Leiby’s 50,000-word massage of Elysian Fields and its singersorry, chanteuseJennifer Charles. Charles, a former District resident, was made out to be a ’90s composite of every femme fatale, muse, and mysterious starchild the ages have coughed up: “The mermaid, the temptress, the siren, the sprite. They feed on love. The bare-shouldered photo of Charles on the album cover summons all of these ancient archetypes. Promise and danger swirl in her eyes. But don’t get too close.” Yeaaaaaaah. But it’s not Elysian Fields that’s the problem. On Bleed Your Cedar, Charles proves herself a capable singer, recalling Mazzy Star’s Hope Sandoval, but her band’s equally Mazzified music occasionally lapses into studio-hack gothic folk. Pretty + average = pretty average, but try telling that to Leiby. See Charles, her “pouty beauty,” and her personal masseur (he’ll be the one up front with the “If You Don’t Get It…” T-shirt) open for the Heads at 7:30 p.m. at the 9:30 Club, 815 V St. NW. $20. (202) 393-0930. (CP)