Emophilia is a word I learned as an adult: a psychological trait that finds one forming intense romantic attachments within moments. It can play havoc with a new or potential relationship, obviously, as it’s akin to putting the pedal to the metal before the other party has shifted out of park. At an initial meetup over coffee, for instance, while they ponder what movie the two of you could see, you wonder aloud when your wedding should be.
With music, however, such an over-the-top response to a fleeting meeting, aka first listen, is commonplace. Some songs seep through the pores, bore into the heart, and subsume the soul. The lilting voice at the forefront—and, with me, it’s almost always a lilting voice—reverberates as if a recovered memory. It could be from yesterday. It could be from childhood. It could also be, and often is, a déjà vu-like epiphany that conjoins the past, present and future. (We have all been here before. We will all be here again. The cycle never ends.)
I thought that—and more—this past weekend while listening to the upcoming sophomore set from Vermont-raised, Nashville-based singer-songwriter Lillian Leadbetter, The World to Come. This isn’t a review of the album, I hasten to add—though I may pilfer parts of the above paragraphs when I get to it in August—but a rumination spurred by both Ms. Leadbetter’s tuneful musings, which often sound like the whispers of a wounded heart, and the unplanned sabbatical I took these last two weeks.
As I sometimes remind folks: I write for fun, not profit. The Old Grey Cat has no ads, subscription tier or Patreon club, just reviews, reviews, and more reviews, occasional countdowns and deep dives, plus essays on related ephemera. Aside from a few penned by Diane, every post is written by me. Some are wordy, others succinct. Either/or, I don’t dash off things. I listen, think, listen again, think some more, research related (and imagined) topics, and scrawl half-assed drafts in my Notes app before, finally, hunkering down for hours to sculpt clarity from the incoherence. (Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I don’t.)
That said, since late last year, I felt an added weight on my bursitis-addled shoulder—and I don’t mean the year-old Mr. Mo, whose heftiness is about five times what it was then. (Miss Maisie, on the other hand, remains relatively dainty.) Despite the oft-made online cries about the dearth of good new grooves, the reality is that every week brings a slew of excellent releases. There’s simply too much for one person to process. My inbox is filled with requests from publicists and artists alike, all of whom I truly appreciate and wish I could placate; filtering through everything, figuring out who and what next to feature, was leaving me paralyzed by indecision.
Which may be why, when I woke on July 2nd with an Alicia Keys song echoing in my head, I chose to ditch my plans and revel in her “New York State of Mind” instead. (As I sometimes do, I’d written that day’s short piece the night before.) Then a chance dance with British soulstress Joy Crookes led to a fun soirée that lasted for hours. How had I not heard of her before?! Because I was too focused on this blog, no doubt. About the same time, a slew of Instagram ads for singer-songwriters returned to my feed—a welcome switch from the “AI girlfriends” that pitch faux intimacy for dollars, pounds and bitcoin. The result: Anna Graves, Ruby Greenberg and Maddie Lenhart, among others, have made it onto my list of artists to watch.
I look forward more than back, as these pages show, primarily listening to new and forthcoming releases unless in the car, when I tend to travel into the past by way of SiriusXM. But for the first time in a long time, here in the den, the bulk of my listening picks were old favorites, including Kasey Chambers, Shawn Colvin, Emmylou Harris and—who else?—Neil Young. Not a one-off album, but two, three, and more. Recent and relatively recent infatuations also recaptured my heart, including the latest offerings from Mikaela Davis and Tift Merritt—plus the Castellows, whose Acoustic Live Sessions EP remains a favorite (albeit virtual) platter. “Old Way” slays me. (I’ve played the video so often that Diane says I’m obsessed with them—but, in truth, it’s the song, their harmonies, and their artful reimagining of what Carly Simon sang in “Anticipation”: “These are the good old days.”)
I also, as that video reference above indicates, dove into the oceanic waters known as YouTube (which I often do at night, anyway). Yesterday’s dip started with the Pretenders’ “Talk of the Town” before switching to the French pop of the 1960s: a dozen Francois Hardy and Sylvia Vartan clips plus foreign-tongued fun from Alexandra, Dorthe and Manuela. Interspersed throughout, for reasons known only to the algorithm, were clips from Anna Graves and Jess Williamson. Lucy Rose’s infectious “No Good at All” popped up, too.
All of which is to say: I feel refreshed and ready to again tackle my inbox.
The Old Grey Cat 