Friday night; I met the most amazing music performer in my world.
She did not have the flair of Michael Jackson. She did not have the eccentricities of Bjork, or Prince, for that matter. She did not have the scandals of Britney Spears, the in-fame of My Chemical Romance, the hypocrisy of Avril Lavigne, the mind-blowing alto of Christina Aguilera, nor did she have the fame and glamour of Muse, Coldplay, Fiona Apple, Norah Jones, or The Beatles, to name a few.
What she did have, though, is a sense of humor; a psychedelic one, in fact. Not to mention one of the most ethereal falsetto I have ever…
…appreciated.
She makes you dream. Ask anyone who really listens to her albums and they can tell you that her music is upbeat, down-to-earth, romantic, sensual, morbid, and even downright depressing. At worst, she is a female version of Damien Rice; at best, she is just…
…Feist.
Friday night; I met the most amazing music performer in my world. After her feisty concert which did not fall short of amazing, we talked about and laughed at our quirks and wits. Most likely, nobody present, except for my friend Ian (and maybe Searle, Abby, Carolyn, and Carly), can testify for the amount of empathy we shared for one another, if only because we listened to our hearts, left them hanging out, and felt it all in that one evening.
She probably didn’t really know what Mushaboom means as well. Something random, she might add.
For all I care, her fans and management may testify me for yet another one of her million and one crazy fans, but frankly, at this rate, I would testify them to be in need of her kind attention. I have her email address and that is all that matters.
And then she asked for my name.
