Here we are again with our special helmets strapped under our chins and our fancy silver space suits. Ready to zing back through time into UI’s archives to see what ancient creaking box of treats lies in wait for our delectation? Today we’re sampling the Lelia Broussard, Southern Belle by way of Philly, who regularly graces NYC with her presence and lilting, soulful voice.
And quite the spicy concoction of flavor-flave our friend Lelia turns out to be.
She belts out soul and jazz but isn’t afraid to throw in a little pop and–gasp–hip hop. Somehow this potentially hot and juicy mess ends up being a melancholic meditation; a mature assimilation of styles that’s both soothing and jarring at the same time. Lelia doesn’t exactly look the part of a postmod-lounge lizard, though. She is the picture of corn-fed innocence: one cute blond pile of puppy-dog eyes, perfectly frayed jeans and sweet girly tanktops she acquired at Gap sales circa 1998 and farm-girl “aw, shucks” charm framed in her mom’s Talbots castoffs.
But take another look at Strawberry Shortcake: Methinks she’s harboring an inner black-clad, whisky-swilling, heart-breaking, moody, slip-dress wearin’ vixen with whom you’d cross swords only at great personal peril. (It’s always the innocent looking ones you have to watch out for–in a good way).
Like many of the complicated “creative geniuses” influenced by everyone from Al Green to Harry Conick Junior, (think Aretha Franklin, Babs, Liza), she’s a lady, she’s a dame, she’s a walking contradiction–just check out her bitchfest about Uncle Junior and Co., below. (One would think miss thing would be rather laid-back on the guido/B&T tip, but bitch isn’t holding punches, no matter what NYCers think of the residents of Philly–our, ahem, sixth borough.
TOPICS: Flashion Backward, Kathleen Wilcox