With political posts proving to be neodymium-strength ass magnets these days, its back to covering obscure music for the time being. (If theres one thing asses value less than progress, its culture.) I was walking on Decatur Street last night when a concert flyer shouted at me. Jana Hunter, it seems, is playing at the Saturn Bar tonight. For the unfamiliar, Hunter is a true talent: a woebegone Texan who runs with the ethereal spook-folk crowd (i.e., Devendra Banhart, Marissa Nadler, Vetiver, Castanets, et al.) and conjures up spookier folk than any of them. Her ghostly, barely there vocals can sound like shortwave radio transmissions from beyond the grave, but she also pens achingly beautiful, three-minute pop songs that take on a sort of otherworldly weight from her sideways delivery. My question is, where was the word on this booking? If it takes a street team to inform a listings editor and a big fan 24 hours out about one of the best small-venue shows of the month, something in New Orleans needs fixing.