by Arica Carlos
(04/19/06)

Listen here. I want to tell you about a lady called Etta James. Are you ready for this? Etta James is a dirty old woman. You know what I mean. Not bag-lady dirty, not unwashed; she doesn't have a used Kleenex up her sleeve like my mother. Etta James wears her sex on her sleeve. No. Look higher. On her shoulder.

Why do dirty old men get all the attention these days? Actually, now that I think about it, they have always hogged the limelight. Pop-star pedophiles, filthy-mouthed comedians, and misogynist filmmakers have always had their say. Where is the spotlight for the dirty old women of the world? It is a question that means more to me these days than it did when I was, say, thirty-nine. Or at least when I was still saying I was thirty-nine.

Yes, Sylvia Kristel and Marilyn Chambers are still with us, but they are not the late-night goddesses they once were. They are name brands. They have been reduced to chaste chaperones in scenarios where younger women now have all the fun. If you can call that fun. These girls today just get the implants and go through the motions. It's all about money. But Sylvia always looked like she was enjoying herself. She was fun to watch. I have since given up on pay television. If it's just about money, they won't get any of mine. So you can imagine my surprise at finding a late-night, late-life sex goddess on PBS.

It's no secret that television is the bosom buddy of all those who find themselves without partners. Some people prefer comedies or call-in shows, like home shopping. Me, I like to put on my flannel pajamas and curl on the love seat with Austin City Limits on those Saturday nights when I haven't got a date to bring me down.

Austin City Limits is in its 31st season, so you must have caught it a time or two while channel surfing. It's the concert series where artists perform in front of a replica of the nighttime Austin skyline. Maybe you avoided it for years because Willie Nelson seemed to be their mascot, but the show has been trying to reach a younger generation these last few years by adding any artist with an "alt" in their genre. I have seen Chris Isaak decked out in a spangly jacket, singing "Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing" and joking about groupies who will wake up alone with a mouth full of sequins. I have seen Shelby Lynne with her electric guitar slung low across a white tank top and no bra. But nothing prepared me for the likes of Etta James.

A word about the blues.

Sexy.

I will not waste time listing James's credentials -- the dues paid and awards won. There are too many to name, and I don't have her press kit in front of me. But I have another reason for not giving you her history: honesty. You see, as this show begins I know nothing about Etta James. And perhaps this is the best way to meet the woman. Naked. Alone. A virgin to Etta's variety of the blues. Let's start clean.

James starts her set with "Tell Mama." It's clear she is the mother of the blues, or at least its current embodiment. It isn't a body to brag about -- unless you have an appreciation for longevity. She hides it under black slacks and a glittery black blouse with sheer sleeves. It doesn't matter that her hands give away her age; you can see it in her face. She is no spring chicken, no swan of summer; Etta is all about autumn, her lined face and faded complexion are perfectly appropriate for this cool October night. But those hands also betray her youth; she can't stop touching herself. Call it digital memory, the way her hands return to her breasts as she sings of love and loss. Not her heart, not a flattened hand on her chest, but a curved hand over the breast every time. She is singing of lost love, but it was physical love -- and she wants it back.

"Tell Mama" is as hard to describe as any song that is more emotion than melody, but James sums it up afterward, taking a seat and telling the audience, "I gotta kinda watch them bumps and grinds, ya know."

So does the studio audience. And they aren't sure how they feel about it. First there is giggling and only scattered applause. An older woman isn't supposed to be so openly erotic. Isn't this public television? Yes, but PBS is older than MTV. Age has its privileges.

The second song is "I'd Rather Go Blind," and the audience mentally fills in the blank as James sings, "I was thinkin' about your sweet kiss and your ____," opening her mouth into an O and swirling her tongue extravagantly. The audience is less timid in their approval now. If Etta can do this, surely we can applaud it. But the woman is just getting warmed up. Throughout the night she will show a naked-faced affinity for the microphone, often closing her eyes and licking the air to either side of that well-shaped instrument. This is wonderfully nasty at her age, made all the more mesmerizing when you see how beautiful she becomes with her head tipped back and her eyes closed. The planes of her face are almost Asian at this angle, and her eyes hold a sweet pain that just pushes the brows up in the center. It is a hallelujah face; the face of a black angel delivering the gospel truth. She is remembering the lay of a lifetime.

"I see your hand over there, I see it. Holding your woman's leg." She sweet-talks the audience into looking at its own sexuality. "That your boyfriend? Ooh, he's cute."

Introducing Randy Newman's song "You Can Leave Your Hat On," Etta actually refers to the songwriter as what's-his-name. Several times tonight she will turn to her young band to be reminded of names and dates she has forgotten, but the blues is something you don't forget. It's like falling off a bicycle. The blues is so easy it hurts. It's hard to miss when you're aiming for the ground.

Now someone may find Randy Newman sexy, but it probably isn't you and it certainly isn't me. I seem to remember Lyle Lovett doing the song justice, retaining all its horny humor and swing, but Lyle is even less likely to get me out of my britches.

Ms. James on the other hand.

You know the song.

"Baby, take off your coat...real slow."

"Baby, take off your shoes." Etta sits and kicks off her shoes, revealing simple black nylons.

Where Newman would sing "Baby, take off your dress," Etta substitutes "that mess" while leaning back and pretending to unzip her pants. I can't help but laugh aloud. You older girls will understand. Tight pants are nice, but there comes a time when breathing is more important than fashion. My mother used to unzip right at the supper table. I am not quite that bad, but it is Saturday night, it is late, and I am sadly alone. Etta has brought a smile to my face, so I shimmy out of my pajama pants and stretch my legs. They are playing the song with an insistent Lenny Kravitz groove. It is impossible not to dance.

Etta's version is immediately more interesting, simply because a woman is mouthing the words. And mouthing is the right verb for what Etta does. On the line "stand on this chair, that's right" she slaps her recently vacated chair and lifts her face to suck an imaginary cock on public television. Some singers play air-guitar, but Etta James has just given new meaning to the term "air-head." I actually squeal with joy and follow the singer's next command: to raise my arms and shake 'em, shake 'em.

"You give me reason to live," she sings over and over, and I think she's got it backward; it is she who is bringing reason to a perfectly pointless Saturday night. The two guitarists take turns leading, and one has a snakeskin-patterned guitar that appeals to me. We like down-to-earth patterns and textures in the Southwest. Flannel pajamas. Argyle knee socks. I keep my feet together and swing my hips, hooking my fingers behind my head and letting my elbows stick out. It is my snake dance, though I must look like I'm resisting arrest.

Etta James isn't about to be outdone. She is leaning on her chair, and her grind is rather gentle at her age, but the look she throws over her shoulder is completely depraved. Animal. Predatory. The woman belongs on all fours.

"We know what love is, don't we, girls?!"

I can't believe I have never heard of this woman before. At sixty-seven she has more gravity than Venus. And I wouldn't reveal her age without giving up my own. I am forty-four on this night. Not exactly elderly, but I am past the point of lifting my top at rock concerts. I am hung up on the looping rhythm section, orbiting the living room but unable to spin away from the screen, afraid I'll miss something that will never air again. I want to put in a tape and press record, but I don't want to stop and turn on the lights. I am thinking of Janet Jackson's "costume malfunction" -- how she had the effrontery to perform such an act, but lacked the backbone to admit it was choreographed.

I am undoing buttons when Etta throws out a line that Randy Newman surely never wrote.

"The older the berry, the sweeter the juice."

Yes. I draw a sharp breath and close my eyes.

"We know! We know!" Etta shouts.

I can almost hear the soft settling of my body as the grind of the work week falls away. I open my top, ease the flannel off my shoulders, and sink into my own grind as the song comes down around me like autumn leaves.

"Damn Your Eyes" is a slower song, and I sway with my shoulders back, pelvis thrust out toward the screen. I can't remember when I last trimmed my shag, and I don't want to remember how long since anyone has seen it. My top is around my elbows, my own sweet berries are bunched between my forearms, and I am chewing one knuckle. I can't help thinking I should be writing this down. I should turn on some lights and find my fountain pen. This is the trouble with being a writer. You are never allowed to enjoy the moment; you are forever thinking ahead to the story. How will I tell this? I am not even sure I can write such a thing. If I am able to relate the story to someone, will that someone also be able to relate to the story?

"I can do what I want. I'm in complete control," Etta is singing, "I don't need anybody else." But you know she's lying. She needs an audience at least. She is singing about surrender and being spellbound, but there must be someone to surrender to, someone to bind you in that spell. Viewers like you.

Professional reviews are best written third-person, as if the reviewer is omnipotent and his opinion is fact. On the Internet they are more often presented first-person. I think this is more amateur, but also more human. You see, I want to tell the world about Etta James. She is the Rosa Parks of the music industry. She refuses to move from her place in the front. If she can be so upfront in her sexuality, and if I can admire her for it, then surely I would be a hypocrite not to write this down. Only a coward would hide behind a third person. What every lonely person -- every writer -- wants is an audience. Be my Gentle Reader.

I drop the flannel to the floor. It is good to stand here in nothing but my knee-socks, like some magazine slut who is supposed to be a schoolgirl just because they put her in white booties and pigtails. Education is sexy.

I am waiting for Mama to instruct me. I push out my belly and wait for Ms. James to open her dirty mouth one more time. She is going to do "some funky blues."

"Don't sing until I tell ya," she says with authority. "I want my turn."

Yes, we all want our turn in the spotlight.

I dance closer to the telly, each lazy lift of my hips drawing a dusty crackle from the screen. My entire body breaks into goosebumps. I am all texture and light. I am eleven years old again and the weight of my flesh is not age, but youth -- baby fat still clinging to my birdy bones. I am old enough to have my own bedroom now, with a lock on the door. Age has its privileges. I remember Mick Jagger's prissy hips parading across the screen, my own hips rocking and rolling on the floor with my hand tucked underneath.

Now Etta is singing "Sugar On the Floor," but I am already there.

It's a cool October night and I am lit up like a jack-o-lantern, all fiery eyes and wicked grin. Etta James has set my guts on fire. I perform a slow soulful hump on the floor, the heel of my hand between my shag and the polished hardwood. It's too long since I took the time to do this right. Without toys, without hurry, no partner, no "I'll just have a salad."

"I know what it feels like to be lying down on the floor." Listen to Mama. "I feel like sugar on the floor." Yes, something sweet and wasted, thrown aside.

"You look good enough to eat," my husband used to say before he lost his appetite and went looking for someone else. How do I look now, babe? I am half-blinded by long hair and wet lashes, but I know how I must look. Picture a one-handed push-up that fails utterly, a rump rising and returning with dimpled effort, thighs swimming in electric blues, and diamond-knit socks stretched over still-strong calf muscles. Imagine breasts poured out like caramel, slow soft dollops reflected in the floor -- the apples are still inside all that taffy, you know -- the nipples like bite-size nougats, thick and brown and bright in the TV light.

But you always did have trouble seeing things my way. Is my rack a little lopsided, dear, my ass not so spanking tight? Why does softness offend you? Did it ever occur to you that I don't feel any different than that first night, that I might still taste the same? Since when are you too good to eat off my floor?

I can't lift my head enough to see the screen; I am lying on my hair. I close my eyes and laugh. I'd forgotten how clumsy this could be. How it doesn't matter. There is no one to take off points for sloppiness. I am eleven with dust bunnies in my hair. Mick Jagger is old enough to be my father, but not half so handsome.

Rolling Stones. Etta James. Blues then, blues now. Or is it the rising tide of applause that draws this out of me? Because I need to know who to thank for my first full-blown, adult orgasm all those years ago, and who to thank for the one I am about to receive. I'd like to call out the proper name, but when I open my mouth I am all choked up on bittersweet reflections.

As Etta James finishes "Sugar On the Floor," the audience comes to a standing ovation. And so do I.

"I wanna thank you all for coming," she says.

Yes, I think, and thank you. Everyone. You've been a wonderful audience.

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