Saturday, October 20, 2007

your pen and paper

I'm sure there is a lot to be unpacked regarding the amount of interest in and pleasure I derive from reading singers' biographies. Maybe it's bound up in weird hagiographic narratives, particularly as I might imagine such things about me (bwahaha). I like to think it's more of a "see what kind of crap I'm getting into." But mostly, I think it's a remnant of my intense audiophilia (which is still present, mind you) which led me to singing in the first place.

By the by, Regine Crespin's autobiography is, so far, a wonderful piece of writing - full stop - never mind a wonderfully written autobiography. To wit:

You [my father] and I faced the horror together, alone like a mother with a child about to be born. But you left me, perhaps to be born in another dimension I couldn't reach. Hardly five minutes later, your drawn, pained face became peaceful, handsome again, and I, undone, was momentarily angry with you.

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