Quincy Coleman Comes H-OM-E to the Hotel Cafe

Pictured (l-r): Andrew Keegan, Co-Founder of Full Circle Venice; Michael Mollura, Quicy Coleman, Kimberly Haynes, Joey Lugassy and Vito Gregoli.

Pictured: Quincy Coleman



WHAT: Quincy Coleman’s inaugural H-OM-E event, the artist’s vision of hosting an experience that creates, educates and celebrates Consciousness & Unity.

THE PLAYERS: Contributed and co-created by Dave Stringer, Kimberly Haynes, Michael Mollura, Joey Lugassy, Andrew Keegan, Josh Radnor, The Hotel Café, and LAYoga

You don’t need to look much farther than Quincy Coleman to know the Reign of the Dragon is coming to an end. But Coleman, a born and bred Hollywood Gen Xer, couldn’t give a shit about all that existential stuff right now. She’s casually on stage sound-checking for her re-coming out gig. You see, she’s lived in this town her whole life. Played at all the spots. Left, and come back, and left again, and come back again. Oh, she’s had songs in movies and TV shows, made myriad of albums, toured the country, spent time in Nashville. She’s swam in the Hollow-swamp since the world began, it seems, and has carefully and gracefully made her way through it. And now she’s Here. A Pisces arch-Angel bard, an utterly present—and talented!—Survivor about to catch a big wave, finally ready and open for wherever it takes her—and US. Ride the saints, baby.

That’s the vibe.

Like targeted prayer calls shooting out of a pink sky (her newly rosy-hair falling out from under her black velvet fedora) Coleman’s songs—folksy, fun, deep sing a-along (p)salms—don’t point fingers, don’t talk down to, or judge. The Quincy Coleman experience isn’t about judgment; it’s all about inclusion and faith.

And, well, they rock. They are at once easy to listen to and deeply moving, poetic and prayerful, catchy and sacred, chart-climbing yet pure, a proverbial musical stew I’ve never quite seen before.

Here you get a Joplin-esque lick with deep, guttural belts, that then gives way to a soaring Jeff Buckley-like wail, pleasantly repeated over and over like mantras (“I am that I am, I am that I am, I am that I am”); then right into a ballad about surviving stage 4 cancer by not fighting the disease but surrendering to it—and then vanquish it completely; and finally a repentance croon/plea thanking our CREATOR for still giving us a shot at redemption.

As a Babylonian native, Coleman is well aware that the very place she is singing, just a block from the infamous BLVD. of discarded souls, was not-too-long-ago acres of sprawling fruit orchards, nut farms, and valleys and mountains of Edenic beauty plunging down to warm, creamy beaches and a skin-tingling, cleansing ocean. Not too long ago. I feel it consciously, and sometimes unconsciously, sprinkled, like Angelic dusk-feathers, all over the tunes. It’s soaked into the lyrics, the openness and honesty of the words. Her voice seems to be bathed in a big, blue blessing of a Full Moon SPOTlight, a voice able to seemingly traverse across all octave stages, sometimes even effortlessly juggling 3 or 4 in the same song.

She also understands the art of theatre. It’s in her blood. Bones. Soul. She knows it inside and out, up and down. And tonight she’s conjuring all these hard-won tools into a body of songs, beginning the urgent task of writing the soundtrack for our new era: THE GREAT AWAKENING.

In these end times, Coleman’s songs are buoyant gems—preciously and playfully—carved to be played on our great CREATOR’S jukebox.

Coleman's stage is simple and intimate—a four-piece band that swells to a six with a rousing recitation of the prayer/poem “OUR FATHER.” But for all the nakedness, you can never quite fully see Coleman. Can’t quite get a fix on her. She’s always shifting, like Technicolor mist or something. Her audience is her covenant and her rainbow of characters play out the drama of her hymns. She bounces from Glory to CREATOR quips to cursing like a sailor (“I only try to use 3 curse words a night”; tonight she had 4!) to having a moment of silence for her friend’s mom who had just passed on….”transitioned.” Then back into a joyously somber sing-along.

While Coleman is no doubt the center of this musical ministry, she is a humble and enigmatic one, like a sci-fi figure from the future that’s come back with tales and visions and…secrets. The perfect plum role-of-a-lifetime: Balancing and thriving on the tricky vine of faith vs what we know, and singing and strumming her ass off about it.

And then, just like that, it’s over. Or is it? If you’ve been paying attention, you too are now balancing on that sweet and slippery vine, hymn-ing her songs in the car while cruising by the fast food joints, bars, and massage dens of Babylon. But don’t fret, there’s new cherub back in town with a pocket full of Spirit-driven songs for these times that are a changin’.

Hallelujah! (And don’t fuck with her.)

Pictured (l-r): Joey Lugassy, Quincy Coleman, Kimberly Haynes and Michael Mollura.


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