An old friend of mine and her husband came rolling into town a weekend ago and shook the place up--slapped some soul back into me. The two of them play in some funky bluesy soul bands back in their little Midwestern college town (she sings, he plays bass) and both are big fans of all things Daptone.

We went out to a Greenwich Village ugly building basement-turned pool hall, bar, and venue called Fat Cat with word that Naomi Shelton and her Gospel Queens would show up and bring the party. That they did. About two songs into their set, it seemed like the entire joint had thrown down their pool cues and made a 20-step pilgrimage over to the music. We had happened to arrive at just the right time to snag a front-row couch up by the band.

Ms. Shelton sang for many years in church gospel choirs--now she has a badass band complete with back-up singers and James Brown's longtime bassist, Fred Collins. Ms. Shelton, however, growling and crooning out all the music and life she has in her, is the unabashed star of the show. Following suit with the idea that music is an expression of emotion and a communal affair, she saw to it that audience members had a chance to sing the chorus into the mic. She'd hold your hand and sing to you. She's not just singing about experiences in passing, she's singing about you and me and her and all of the folks in the room right here, right now.

It was refreshing and energizing and really reminded me of what damn good performers are all about.