Photos by Ady
Words by Shan

Thanksgiving tradition is now my sis and I cozied up in one of the slinky booths of the Tangier to be part of Joseph Arthur’s evening there. He plays host to the town . . . one man and his guitar and red pork pie hat, Akron body back in his homeland just as we are taken back to a piece of ours.  Market Street falls dark and cold but inside is festive lights and warmth. It’s been a long journey but we have returned to our bunker, the cradle of the big booth we’d been yearning for, and fall in love with the golden voice all over again. Song comes out of every pore of Arthur’s body, arms, legs, mind, heart. He towers above and yet climbs even higher to stomp on box and pummel us in the face. A glass of wine and The Devil’s Broom. Lou Reed is there in spirit, too. People packed in like sardines to be in his presence. Octaves spill from his lungs. Joe’s lungs. They must be massive. He loops and he runs circles around our minds. He is his own wall of fame.