Karaoke night in the lounge at the Comfort Inn, the singer looks more unsteady than the way I feel. She’s been egged on by three other women sitting at a table upfront. They all look to be about the same age, late 30s or so, wearing variations of office casual. Occasionally, I hear a staccato of throaty laughter but otherwise have paid little attention to them. The woman, standing on the tiny, low stage sings with a startling lack of inhibition that transcends the mostly empty room. She is mesmerizing, not because of her voice, which is neither particularly artful nor tuneful, but because the conviction of her singing reaches beyond any practised technique. She isn’t holding back. Each note, each syllable becomes the whole truth, a testimony to the power of such a seemingly trivial song as ‘Don’t Be Cruel’.
I’m swept away by the rhetoric, the history and the poetry of her literal and liberating rendition – boiling the essence of the song down to its naked pleading, its joy of being enslaved by love, the obsessive need for love’s requital. At first, she starts by reading the lyrics off the tv monitor, following the crimson sweep through the bright white letters. But soon her eyes are half-closed as if she’s reading the words from somewhere else. ‘You know I can be found,’ she sounds a little tentative. ‘Sitting home all alone,’ now there’s joy, as if being alone is a sexy anticipation of not being alone. I hear Elvis Presley in her styling, but because the canned music has a slightly faster beat than his version, this woman sings his song with more urgency, even rushing a little ahead of the beat. And I believe utterly that she understands the overwhelming cruelty of misplaced affection, but cannot resist its comforting strictures. ‘Why should we be apart/I really love you, baby, cross my heart,’ I hear the sincerity of the words and something more – she is hinting at a desire behind the pledge, that, sure, she will love him forever for now, because, well, sometimes a girl has needs. ‘Let’s walk to the preacher,’ – I don’t know what kind of preacher would be within walking distance of a motel. ‘You’re the only one I’m thinking of,’ she finishes the song in an almost matter-of-fact way, no theatrical flourish, just stating the obvious. And the whole room, such as it is, detonates into a vigorous applause.
Lovely one,/your eyes are too big for your face,/your eyes are too big for the earth.
.. . { pablo neruda. bella }
spiral scratch
absolutely cuckoo .. . { the magnetic fields, 69 love songs }
no so più cosa son .. . { cecilia bartoli, le nozze di figaro }
someday .. . { bobby ‘blue’ bland, i pity the fool }
