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Tonight beloved wife took me to see the Funk Brothers in concert at B.B. King's. We loved the recent documentary about them, "Standing In The Shadows Of Motown", and I've been a big fan of these musicians ever since I first heard all the Motown hits they played on.

True, only three genuine Funk Brothers were onstage tonight -- bassist Bob Babbitt, drummer Uriel Jones, and guitarist Eddie Willis -- and the one I most wanted to see, guitarist Joe Messina, had been listed on the poster but wasn't on the show. But that's not what bothered me about the show.

It was their shaves. They all had lousy shaves.

Is it asking too much for the Funk Brothers to employ proper grooming before they come onstage to play "My Girl", "I Heard It Through The Grapevine", and "What Becomes Of A Broken Heart"? They obviously care enough about their stagecraft to all wear matching royal blue blazers (double-breasted, 'natch, for that Ted Knight in "Caddyshack" touch of class) -- so why don't these guys care about their shave?

I'll tell you why. Because they don't have what I have. They don't have a WWII-era Eversharp Injector loaded with a modified Feather Pro Guard blade, the poor dears. If they did, the footlights would've been blinding as they bounced off the Funk Brothers' freshly shorn mugs. It would've been glorious to behold.

As it was, the music sounded good (although someone tell the backup singer/MC that a keyboardist isn't "on ORGAN Y'ALL!" when he's playing organ sounds on a Roland synth), but how could I enjoy it when the shaves were not up to the same level of precision and expertise? I don't just attend musical concerts for the music, I like to see well-shaved men onstage. Now Nelson -- those two young men had splendid shaves. Truly a pleasure to take in their performance. The Funk Brothers could learn a thing or two from these sons of Ricky Nelson who found their calling in albino metal-lite power balladry.

Today I shaved with my Feather-loaded Injector again, on a bed of schnozz-happy Trumper violet cream stoked with a Vulfix #2235 brush. My little guy came into the bathroom to watch me shave -- the first time he's ever done this -- so I picked him up and sat him down on the toilet seat lid, and explained what I was doing every step of the way. Cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon, etc.

Got choked up at the end, but not because of the emotion -- because of the shave. It was another stupendous straight-razor-like shave from the Feather/Injector rig, and I didn't even have to do any special prep beforehand like sweat my ass off at the Y or rub hair conditioner over my face in the shower before the shave. The Feather-loaded Injector just doesn't care about what you bring to the party -- all it needs from you are whiskers, the ability to simply guide it down your face and then up your face, and a light, almost cavalier touch. Cover these minimal bases and the shave's a lock. It's really extraordinary what loading a Feather Pro Guard blade into a vintage Injector can do in terms of delivering an A-game shave without any special prep or technique.

Next time the Funk Brothers come to town, I'm bringing master barber Mike Vozzelli with me to treat these legends to a real barbershop straight razor shave before the show. Maybe Babbitt can teach me the bass part from "Scorpio" while Mike's putting hot towels on Eddie Willis's face. And then I'll give Mike the high sign and he'll "drop" his razor and cut Eddie's hand open -- just a flesh wound, nothing serious -- but he won't be able to play the gig that night, and they'll turn to me and ask me if I know how to play their songs, which I don't really, but how hard is it anyway to do chank-chank downstrokes on the beat, I mean it's not like I'm filling in for Mathew Nelson on "(Can't Live Without Your) Love And Affection" or anything, so I grab Eddie's custom semi-hollow Telecaster (which I keep afterward as payment for saving the show) and an hour later I'm an honorary Funk Brother, finally stepping out of the shadows to claim credit for the classic Motown Sound. All thanks to shaving.