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Sean
sean coleman
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no problemo
Male
39 years old
boston area, Massachusetts
United States
Last Login: 2/9/2010
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Sean's Interests
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| General | music,politics,art ,literature ,food, cars | | Music | old r'n'b, rockabilly,soul,blues,honkytonk,country,old punk and hardcore like mom used to make. | | Movies | Of the variety that doesn't openly insult my intelligence.(usually). | | Television | pbs,msnbc, Political junkie stuff. | | Books | right now on the book shelf: Sellout by Randall Kennedy, Babbit by Sinclair Lewis. This will be updated regularly. | | Heroes | screw heroes, be yourself. |
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Sean's Details
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| Status: | Single | | Here for: | Networking, Friends | | Orientation: | Straight | | Hometown: | Mass. | | Religion: | Agnostic | | Zodiac Sign: | Aquarius | | Smoke / Drink: | Yes / Yes | | Children: | I don't want kids | | Occupation: | stuff |
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Sean's Blurbs |
About me:
you all should know me.
“No one wants to follow the Swinedells.”
Excerpt from "Bringing punk back home" By Walter Smelt, The Somerville News
"No one wants to follow the Swinedells." With good reason. The six-piece Swinedells played their first club show just over two years ago, but already they are a Boston institution, laying down old-school R&B and rock 'n' roll with the conviction of apostles. They sound like a band booked 50 years ago for a high school prom against the principal's better judgment.
The band is fronted by Sean Coleman, a singer who resembles a bantam rooster not just in size and energy, but even in his cockscomb of a pompadour. (One of his more passionately sung numbers was entitled "Don't Touch My Hair.") He can slide without faltering from a crooner's tender tremolo to the shriek of a blues preacher, until you wonder how such a thin frame can contain that truck-horn of a voice.
Behind him were guitarists Stiggs Piranha and Greg Giannino, drummer Jeebs Piranha (brother to Stiggs), Bat the bassist and Terry O'Malley on the all-important saxophone. The whole band was on and swinging from the first note of an old song that sounded like "Good Golly Miss Molly," for which Coleman summoned Little Richard's trademark scream.
While O'Malley and his saxophone swayed and dipped together and the guitarists leaned over their instruments like surgeons, Coleman was everywhere, jumping, gesticulating-in short, jiving. Sometimes he went down on one knee as though proposing to the entire audience. To judge from their shouts, the crowd was ready to accept.
The Swinedells played honest-to-God, no-holds-barred rock 'n' roll with an extra helping of soul, and their energy was so irresistible they even got a roomful of hip Northerners to forget their carefully slicked-back hair and dance. When the band announced the next song would be their last, the crowd disagreed vehemently. So the Swinedells pounded out one "last" song after another, a band obviously unconcerned with the forward march of time.
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