Last fall, through a string of serendipitous events that seemed to be years in the making (aren’t they always?), I bought tickets to your New Year’s Eve concert in San Francisco on the same day I listened to your music for the first time.
In the weeks leading up to your show, I listened to your songs and began to feel them. But it wasn’t until the show that they climbed under my skin, where they’ve stayed. And in the spirit of melomania, I feel compelled to share a few ways in which your art has spoken to me:
Your twin-goddess archetype. The sisters, the best friends forever, the female friendship in its glory and power. As a Gemini and a mother of two girls and a sister to a sister and a best friend to some beloved best friends, I know firsthand the interweave and the overlap, the light and the shadow. You personify this dynamic with unrivaled glitter and authenticity.
Your voices together… Sound like an echo. Like the past and the present and the future braided into a single unifying expression. You are the siren who ends wars.
Your tender moments on stage that became my tender moments–held by my sweetheart, standing with old and new friends, soaking up the glow of music made from the heart. I felt so close to everyone in the room that it was like we had all come there together. Now, I can’t listen to Two of Us on the Run or Dusty Trails without crying a little. Your songs help me to release slowly, so that I don’t later explode.
Your presence. A moment before the year turned, I turned and you were 10 feet away–along with lights and a camera and hushes from the crowd. We surrounded you, and it felt like we were holding you so you could cast this spell for all of us. I made wishes not only for the year but for my life, all of my deep-seated doubts and fears dissolved by this magic. I felt lighter than I have in a long time, and this lightness continues to carry me, 28 days into 2018.
Please keep making your music. It helps me to love better.