what wasted unconditional love
I was shocked yet excited to see that Fiona Apple’s Extraordinary Machine was named Best Album of the Year by numerous publications, namely Entertainment Weekly. While I was listening to it, it didn’t feel like there was anyone else listening to it. I had no idea that it sang to so many people. I love it. It’s totally Fiona and it’s beautiful.
Speaking of Ms. Apple, I never commented on the concert that I attended;
After wading through hordes of beautiful girls (lucky me) and drinking enough Miller Lite to relax in the claustrophobia-inducing environment, I finally settled on a spot in the corner and waited for the girl to walk out on stage.
Wearing some kind of typical-Fiona dress/robe/cloak, she walked out, sat down in front of the keys, and started hammering out one of the new songs. She didn’t say anything. She just sang, and the thing about her is that you almost don’t want her to say anything, because you don’t want her words to alter the image of that broken/dreary/melancholic girl that you fell in love with.
She did finally say Hi to us all and fought her way through a small story about something or other, nervously, before again slipping under the shell of her self-proclaimed stentorian voice.
I remember thinking that she reminds me of my sister when I first listened through Tidal. My sister would write that, I thought. My beautiful broken/dreary/melancholic sister would write that.
I had made my way to the back of the theater and, with my elbows resting on the bar, the wood beneath my shoes rattling from the bass, and my eyes heavy from the weight of Sunday night, she sang on.
I was shocked yet excited to see that Fiona Apple’s Extraordinary Machine was named Best Album of the Year by numerous publications, namely Entertainment Weekly. While I was listening to it, it didn’t feel like there was anyone else listening to it. I had no idea that it sang to so many people. I love it. It’s totally Fiona and it’s beautiful.
Speaking of Ms. Apple, I never commented on the concert that I attended;
After wading through hordes of beautiful girls (lucky me) and drinking enough Miller Lite to relax in the claustrophobia-inducing environment, I finally settled on a spot in the corner and waited for the girl to walk out on stage.
Wearing some kind of typical-Fiona dress/robe/cloak, she walked out, sat down in front of the keys, and started hammering out one of the new songs. She didn’t say anything. She just sang, and the thing about her is that you almost don’t want her to say anything, because you don’t want her words to alter the image of that broken/dreary/melancholic girl that you fell in love with.
She did finally say Hi to us all and fought her way through a small story about something or other, nervously, before again slipping under the shell of her self-proclaimed stentorian voice.
I remember thinking that she reminds me of my sister when I first listened through Tidal. My sister would write that, I thought. My beautiful broken/dreary/melancholic sister would write that.
I had made my way to the back of the theater and, with my elbows resting on the bar, the wood beneath my shoes rattling from the bass, and my eyes heavy from the weight of Sunday night, she sang on.
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