There’s a specific kind of talent in some singers, a very specific quality. With some singers, their souls are so fluid that when they perform, the hurt and heartache they carry just slides out of them, really quietly, and you don’t know it’s happened until you realise that that pain in their souls has slid silently into your own, as you listen. A holding of ghostly hands.
It’s a communion, and it just knocks the wind out of you. And you’ll listen to them again and again and again.
A picture of you
Holding a picture of me
In the pocket of my blue jeans
I still don’t know what love means