A Real Man Doesn't Show Emotions
And so with this in mind, it is worth noting that I do not like Vera November’s first release, on a Rough Trade EP celebrating the work of Arthur Russell.
I do not like it, because it is an astonishingly beautiful union of disarmingly honest, pathos laden vocal and occasionally sparse, occasionally affirming piano that seems to bring into form the crushing despair and helplessness of two people drifting apart, through no fault of their own. I particularly don’t like the almost too-long silences that remind us of the lowest points the human soul can plumb, before climbing out the other side, and rising again. No, I don’t like that at all.
For those who enjoy unmanly pursuits, more of Ms. November’s songs can be heard here, and her first single comes out on Too Pure in the not too distant future. I won’t be buying that. Oh no.
And whilst we’re on the subject of my impressive masculinity, it is worth noting that contrary to popular rumour, there never was a time when Christine McVie made me weep like a child, that never did happen, because I a man, and I’m hard and that.
Now, would anyone like an arm wrestle?
Tiny Dancer
Labels: fleetwood mac, lady songs, vera november
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