It is ironic that when I sat down in a nearly-empty bar on an unassuming Sunday night to see a show, I asked what it would have been like to have heard Jeff Buckley in a small club, what it was like to see that hidden gem hiding in the place you call home.
Then Thunder Thighs happened. And I understood.
Seeing her live was akin to something bordering on the religious. I was not prepared for the gravity of it, that careful, burgeoning ache that crept in and took me completely unawares. The performance had an intimacy, a grace, that I have not seen anywhere else. To even begin to compare will only cause me to fall short. If Annie Lennox went on a spiritual journey I imagine it would sound something like this.
Her covers of Fleetwood Mac and Kid Cudi overshadowed the originals, and her original work was haunting, full of a strength that was beckoning to burst forth yet restrained by an interpretive wisdom that made me shudder.
I’m stunned that Columbus, that home, has such a talent.
“I watched a storm rolling in,” and I have yet to see, or feel, her leave.