Steven Seagal & Thunderbox Live @ The Soaring Eagle aka Steven You Are Big As A House

It was somewhere between Out For Justice and On Deadly Ground, Steven was at home washin’ down his favorite fried marshmallow and banana sandwiches with a smooth chocolate/peanut butter milk shake laced with a little Jim Beam bourbon. Sure…he was gaining a little weight and his manager was on his ass…
”nobody gonna produce any of your movies with you lookin’ like a big fat beached whale, for chrissakes. Get a hold of your self, you can’t kick yourself out of a paper bag anymore, let alone throw a half way decent punch.”

Steven just told him to go fuck himself…
“I’m gonna record an album of blues standards and become what I’ve always wanted to be – a violent martial arts buddhist bluesman, nobody’s done that before. All I need to do is call up some of dem ‘ol blues legends and pay ‘em an outrageous amount of money to sit-in on some fairly pedestrian covers, plaster their names all over the cover and wha-la- I’m an instant blues ICON!!!

But in truth, Steven never dreamed of being a guitar slinger, sure he grew up in the Deee-troit area where music reigned supreme. He even attended a few Seger shows but he was just a skinny little shaver all wet behind the ears and unnoticed, ‘cept for a few of the bullies who targeted young Steve-a-reno for considerable harassment; you know, all the usual stuff – stolen lunches, swirlies, red hot on the jock strap and an occasional ass whoopin’. Steve vowed that know one would ever humiliate him again and maybe, just maybe he might even the score eventually. So he begs and begs his mom, and though they are poor she works a second job, night shift job to pay for his martial arts training and damn if the kid ain’t a natural and in a few years and two shakes of a tail feather he’s an Aikido master. I suppose some people are just born to be a star. But it’s one thing to pretend you are Italian or Native American or vaguely ethnic but Seagal’s latest achievement is his Coup de grace; a big rolly polly sumo wrestler of a white dude pretending to the throne of blackness…what balls! Only problem is he can’t sing worth a shit and he plays guitar like a little 5 year-old girl, all thumbs and no technique. And he is just not black... or brown or any shade of color. He's just a clueless white dude whose eaten too much cornbread.

Seagal may have never attempted this charade if it were not for his hangers on and sycophants, like Elvis’ Memphis Mafia. The gang would sprawl about at his mansion shootin’ television sets, drinkin’ and smokin’ getting laid and arm wrestling and pinky-swearing. They would also get their guitars and such out and jam and play old blues songs that didn’t press them past one or two chords. As these sessions progressed, Seagal’s loyal and dimly lit entourage told him over and over again that he was great and wonderful and that maybe he should start a band and record an album and become an instant blues legend. Steven agreed. He even practiced Ebonics in the mirror, “whassup bro - you da man, let’s go to the crib for a booty call. I loves to be wiff the wimmin an’ git ‘em from bee-hine”.
And…well, the rest is history…

Which brings us to the Steven Seagal & Thunderbox show@ The Soaring Eagle Casino in Mt. Pleasant…you don’t really wanna know… do you? Well let me tell, there was this wee slapdash of a laddie-buck Scotsman who opened the show, name of JJ Gilmour, who strummed his guitar and sang the most awful homemade shit-of-set that I thought I might have to kill him. He was bad…I mean baaaaaad - every song precious and trite. But when Segal came on and began to doodle and meander on his guitar thinkin’ he’s Wes Montgomery but soundin’ like one of the Olsen twins on Full House, I wanted that damn Scotsman to climb back on to the stage and put a tilt in his kilt…THAT’S how astonishingly awful Seagal is. First thing you notice about Seagal is that he is...well...as big as a house... and he has his big unmuscled little old lady arms and that he’s a thumb picker but a-none-too impressive thumb picker – no Throm Bresh here. Plus he has no rhythm and he moves around the stage makin’ brokeback moves like some wannabe cowboy. He performs several songs from Mojo Priest, including Alligator Ass, Love Doctor, Talk To My Ass – not all together worthless ‘cos they have a tongue-in-cheek point of view – but ultimately it was all pretty much disposable. After every song his back-up singers would shout out - MR. STEVEN SEAGAL. LET'S HEAR IT FOR STEVEN SEAGAL. Well alright already, we know it's Steven Seagal, can't miss him. I thought, "maybe they're happy to finally get a paying gig." We left after about 45 minutes into the show, guess I had enough, lost 20 bucks on the slots but got a complimentary cup of Mountain Dew from one of the slot machine hostesses and my brother-in-law GAVE me tickets to the show…guess I have nothing to complain about

Peace
Bo White