He was part animal, part angel, whipping and turning, bubbling with energy, despite the fact that the band went on at 5 in the morning. His sexual energy was far more revitalizing than caffeine might have been that morning. The cascade of fringe that ran up his arms and down his legs was already theatrical, but seemed to catalyze his spirit even further. When the music stopped, the sound of leather hitting leather remained, his own personal rhythm.
Jimi’s fringe looked just like his guitar sounded: brazen and brimming with intangible power. Playing his war-ravaged “Star Spangled Banner,” he was America, at least in that moment. His fingers feverishly danced across the neck of his guitar, as leather danced around him. The lengths of fringe extending from his arm and chest seemed as if they could be radiating out of his instrument, extensions of his soul.
The cloud of her dark curls graced her white tunic, dripping with stick straight fringe, the hellish meeting the holy. Like her vibrating voice, the supernatural white leather transported us to someplace otherwise unknowable. When she hit a heavy note, her body thrashed into it, her fringe waving to the crowd. Her eyes were tired, but her body, swathed in pure white, swirled with dynamism.
-Post by St. Steven