Dear Mama
Last night you sang and played for us. Your music is something like a prayer, a dirge, a war cry & a victory song meeting, mingling &merging. Your ballads &bluebird ditties are dirty and beautiful, &so are all your inmates. In all the right ways.
But.
I can’t hear what sister Sannie is saying. And I’m not the only one. Her voice is heavens(c)ent and bloody, but she needs to ennunciate more, because i know her lyrics are as good if not better than her melodies and vocal abilities. &Galina’s gorgeous eyes roll around her sockets like she really would rather be somewhere else. It’s weird, because she is the most capable of bringing joy to the set, and instead people are leaning over to me &saying, ‘mydoghowsheplaysthat fiddle’ and/or ‘why is she up there if she's so unhappy?’ &finally - nobody is communicating with Hagar. Quiet and humble as she is, she is the hidden flower, and flowers need attention to blossom bigger. You are not forgetting she’s your lead guitarist, are you? Or are you?
I'm sure the uber cool Fez and Kurt would agree with me if they were the other side of the sticks and bass. Do me a favour, ladies - do them proud.
That’s all. I’ve had a night of nasty discoveries and even harder realisations. So forgive me my directness.
Or don’t.
In the spirit of your world (in)fame(y)
Jezebel
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