strange weather

"he was a sailor/a sailor at sea and a sailor of love/and he thought he could save her/save her from innocence up and above" -sailor and widow

the lights sparkled up through the giant window, reflecting spectres of dark cars signified only by headlights caught in a rotary, circling and circling the statue of the genocidal maniac some still revere. within the tiny auditorium, hot pink lights illuminated the audience, turning my yellow dress to orange. the string quartet was chic in black; v-necked caftan on the cellist, sequined top behind the viola. the first violin was tiny and white-haired and french in a suit.

keren ann took the stage, stepping up carefully in black ankle boots. not expecting much, i anticipated shoulder pads and severe hair cut and dramatic make-up more befitting a pop star wielding a gun. instead she was small and soft and parisian, with hair in gentle waves approaching her waist, parted in the middle. she wore a simple black dress with a pleated skirt, which, along with black electric guitar, easily concealed her early pregnancy. only the wine glass full of water rather than whisky hinted at healthful discretion.

she quietly commanded the stage, presenting subdued arrangements of her dancier hits. there is something perennially sexy about a dress behind a guitar. the strings bowed in unison, out of unison, the cellist with deep and sultry highlights. the french lilt of the singer's english did not penetrate her lyrics, only the gracious chatter between songs. i thought about effecting the accent myself, if i could pull it off, but sometimes i feel too tall and conspicuous to be a curvy french ingenue.

later, escaping the dark pools of the strings and the french singer all in black, i reentered the l.e.d. light of the nighttime streets of new york. i rode the flourescent train with a yawn, the tired eyes of queens neighbors silent and staring. back in my room, her recording would sound tinny and false, with none of the simplicity of her live singsong voice, the gentle whispers introducing the quartet, lingering on the short 'i'. does she sound familiar because this music is inherent to me, or because she is merely a collage artist of others' notes and thoughts? a '70s song i can't place emerges behind 'not going anywhere.' my dress, a dim shade of yellow, hangs limply on the back of my rocking chair.