![]() ![]() Lines like, "Though my wrists and my waist seemed so easy to break, still my dear I would have walked you to the edge of the water, and they will recognize all the lines of your face, in the face of the daughter, of the daughter, of my daughter" ring inside the listener not just because of the beautiful imagery, but because of Newsom's delivery, which is wet with candor and vulnerability. She instead layers a dynamic, cinematic sound that begs inquiry - both for its highly structured imagery and its delivery. ![]() Such is the fate of Joanna Newsom, the Californian harpist whose approach to songwriting is neither exploratory nor static. However, the moment we can't rationalize an artist's eccentricity into concrete, tangible terms - political, intellectual, or conceptual - we balk, labeling the artist weird for the sake of weird, and move on. ![]() We aren't afraid of strange, so long as it's strange enough to earn a fucking modifier - fucking out there, fucking bizarre, fucking genius, man. It's no great feat to experiment sonically and stretch musical taxonomy into another "-core" (clarinet-core, pots-and-pans-core, sit-on-a-synth-and-fiddle-core).
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