Yesterday, I had to sit in my car for a few minutes until the song I was listening to came to an end. A common occurrence for me and for all of us, I'm sure, except for the highly disturbing fact that it was only playing in my head.
This song isn't one I would ever have heard on the radio, and the artist isn't one I would ever have found in my head absent a seductive piece by Sasha Frere-Jones. His articles and blogs always teach me something about a singer or a band, but they are often a closed loop, piquing and then satisfying my interest. What he wrote about this particular singer and his music was no closed loop, but more like a rabbit hole.
Generally speaking, I hate singer-songwriters, too confessional or too genteel. But this singer-songwriter is raw and elemental, not merely naked. His harmonies are thrilling, not merely surprising, even after so many listens. I cannot come to understand how he writes what he does. He is an addiction, costing me a good 45 minutes and 46 seconds at least once a day, for many many days. I bless Bonnie "Prince" Billy, but I curse Sasha Frere-Jones.