On Monday, December 7th, at the really beautiful Ella Lounge (9 Ave A, off Houston) - it’s like something out of a Bogart movie over there.  Just Robert, with Mara on piano. Bittersweet story. Song.  Hilarious raconteuring tale. Song. Interpretive dance. Out-of-breath song. And on and on.

Please make your reservations by email - at reasonmanagement@live.com

Mention Robert’s capezio dancing shoes and get a reduced half-price admission of just $5!

Can’t wait to see you.

Love,

Comic Tales of Tragic Heartbreak

ELLA Lounge - 9 Ave. A, off Houston

Songs & Stories, starts at 8 PM

click on the coupon to download yours now!

(New York, NY) April 8, 2009 – This show has been going gangbusters all over New York City, with a hotly anticipated self-titled release on Triple R Records May 9, 2009, at The Green Room, 45 Bleecker Street Theater in NYC, 8 PM.   Previous performers in this space include Ethan Coen of the Coen Brothers, F. Murray Abraham, Daily Show founder Liz Winstead, Lesley Gore, and comedian Russell Brand.

Think 60’s Northern Soul, a little Burt Bacharach, a bit of Beat free association, a dash of Bowie and James Brown - and you have
Comic Tales of Tragic Heartbreak. This piano-driven, soul-influenced band features an incredible live show with crazy energy, outrageous humor, and unbelievable originality. Quite a combustible recipe here!

“Lunacy? Spectacle? And music, too?” Rene Chun, New York Times

“The best show I’ve seen in months.” Dan Aquilante, New York Post

Comic Tales’ lead singer, songwriter, and trumpeter Robert Whaley previously fronted NYC rock legends, The Niagaras. With a penchant for interpretive dancing on tabletops and hilariously satirical rants on a broken childhood, Whaley electrified national audiences with appearances on Good Morning America, the Oxygen network, and Fox. The Niagaras were a hugely popular staple of the Manhattan scene for nearly two decades, attracting celebrities, controversy, and packed houses along the way.

Seeking a return to the R&B roots that got him into music in the first place, and informed by an almost pathological aversion to anything post-1974, Whaley joined forces with pianist and arranger Aaron Wyanski, industry veteran Michael “Miguelito” LaMorté (Mini-King, Grupo Miguelito) on bass, and longtime Niagaras drummer Dylan Wissing (Johnny Socko, Novel) to craft an organic, literate, deeply-grooving collection of semi-autobiographical songs.

Written in a tiny studio filled to bursting-with-20^th Century literature, and inspired by a massive collection of obscure vinyl, Comic Tales of Tragic Heartbreak have managed to create a sound and a show which is both timeless and cutting-edge. The sweat-drenched performances along with the rapidly-disappearing ability to deeply engage and entertain a crowd really leave a lasting impression. Sounds like hype, until you experience it in person.

More information, with sound files, video, and photographs can be found on:

www.comictalesoftragicheartbreak.com

www.myspace.com/comictalesoftragicheartbreak

The CD release party is Saturday, May 9 at 8pm, at the The Green Room, at the 45 Bleecker Theater in NYC.

The unkillables sit with screwed-up wavy life-lines in their palms writing public park poems about the days when parole officers made us clean dog kennels for the sins of laughing too loud, swallowing our own tongue-bitten blood, masquerading as a gym class.  We knew how to sing with starlings the birds that everyone tried to shoot the ones that frantically clogged up chimneys.  We only knew how to clog up classrooms with our own klutzy minds the kinds that finally cleared up long enough to travel down in busloads, to stand in old Herald Square staring mutely at Macy’s.  We knew that no one gets fairly elected to the sexual congress that no one sleeps tight with their own hands wrapped around their necks that Career Family Faith and Marriage made worse noises in our ears than the thwack of hard spit into a metal bucket.  (But it made such a funny sound we thought we’d try it anyway.)  The unkillables got that way by following the logic of the seniles who flew kites naked in lightening storms who threw hot oatmeal at the television who screamed orange soda! into the telephone.  The sense made senseless the soul got soulless the sex laid loveless.  What gave us hope and a hop, a ray of sunlight for our grey fluorescent skins, a cock-eyed look of courage, a too loud laugh at the ones who so badly wanted us, in some way or another, dead?
We’re here. We’re unkillable.

City summers of perishables. Old men sleeping shirtless
on church steps, their dreaming heads running footage of Tommy
Agee and the sixty-nine Mets.  Then the next year
when they switched to wide ties and blow dryers.
They know
someone somebody somewhere
loved them once.
They know
once there was real beds bathtubs and barstools.
They know
nobody ever comes to claim them
once all is lost
before the anesthesia wears off
before the first winter frost.