Depression, Jazz, Blues, and loving Diana Krall

The first time I heard Diana, I said to myself, this is how I've always wished my singing voice to be, low, throaty, has a warm, grainy texture to it, like those old pinewood floorboards in old-fashioned houses, brown with time, comfortably dry yet moist with fermented sentiments, faintly fragrant.

Now in another violent bout of depression I sit in my unlit room in the failing afternoon light, salty liquid half dried on cheeks, listening to Diana once more. That worn out heart trying to take those melancholic doses of warmth in, like how I would clasp my stone cold hands round a glass of steamy water in winter times, then slowly sip, drink, and feel the heat tickle every cell awake as it passes. The Heart is Lonely Hunter, by McCullers. I suddenly think of the novel I have yet to read. Only read another book by the same author long time ago, The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, from which I copied the following quote—

"Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which had lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is the knowledge which makes him suffer. So there's only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best as he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world—a world intense and strange, complete in himself…the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons."

That's right. Go check out McCullers sometime. She wrote with a reticence and taciturnity that's most uncommon in writers.

And back to Krall. In her latest album she wrote six of the twelve songs, most of which are introspective, personal, and most intimate. And my personal favorite—

The Girl in the Other Room.

The girl in the other room
She knows by now
There's something in all of her fears
Now she wears it threadbare
She sits on the floor
The glass pressed tight to the wall
She hears murmurs low
The paper is peeling
Her eyes staring straight
at the ceiling

Maybe they're there
Maybe it's nothing at all
As she draws lipstick smears
on the wall

The girl in the other room
She powders her face
And stares hard
Into her reflection

The girl in the other room
She stifles a yawn
Adjusting the strap of her gown
She tosses her tresses
Her lover undresses
Turning the last lamp light down
What's that voice we're hearing?
We should be sleeping
Could that be someone who's weeping?

Maybe she's there
Maybe there's nothing to see
It's just a trace of what used to be

The girl in the other room
She darkens her lash
And blushes
She seems to look familiar

It is almost poetry. Or shall we say, it IS poetry, of its own kind, lyrical and wonderful, almost a film sequence, fragmentary frames, an oil painting, an afternoon reverie. A dimpling sea of mercury that mirrors an image of a ghostly self in me, immaterial, shivering with the joy of existence, and also angst of having in possession pining youth that's both a blessing and a curse. Am I the Girl in the Other Room? Or am I the one thinking about the Girl in the Other Room? Or both? Or neither? Only time knows. Which, again, is an illusion.


评论/留言
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作者：Slappujudu　　时间：2004-12-4 5:27:33
dear stick, your thoughts almost remind of of esther sama, but then probably no. her constant ''angst'' doesn''t contain melancholy. i actually listened to diana krall''s new album and was playing ''stop this world'' on repeat mode some period months back. and yes her voice is surely sensual and throaty. what i understand about beloved or the to love which paired together will be perfect but taken to be unidirectionally domineering, seems like a a selfish emotional outlet of what i''d say is excessive love that is eager to spread over and devour that ''house'' which quietly and patiently holds those tingling nerves until the emotional tides swell up from inside and eager to conquer another territory-the beloved. mind of a new lover that starts to live in your heart house and unaware it''s changing u in little aspects that amount to a new being recoganizable no longer. and you stare into the mirror grimacing and screaming at the new art work sculpted by a foreigner who comes from his own lonely planet n makes yours his home. dunno what i''m talking about. just suddenly feel that love is selfish. and lovers probably the sweetest enemies.