- My pandora station juxtaposed an Eva Cassidy’s rendition of “Coat of Many Colors” with Kelly Clarkson’s “Up to the Mountain,” and after the first few bars I had to look to see if they were the same singer. Further listening revealed the difference, though. Both Cassidy and Clarkson have the same amazing, A-MA-ZING natural talent, vocal control, range, timbre – you name it. Hearing them both perform a number in the same style, back to back, illustrated this pretty clearly. But Cassidy is so much more restrained, more subtle. Clarkson, to put it in a crude metaphor, blows her wad on vocal gymnastics with every single note and cheapens the emotion. If she would resist showing off her voice, and let it take a backseat to the SONG (and if she didn’t sing every bit of crappy pop blather that her manager had written for the purpose of keeping her in top ten singles), she would be one of the best vocal performers of our time. Though probably not quite as rich.
- I just found a glow in the dark plastic wiggly bug in my pants cuff. Those sonofaguns are already everywhere. Am now rethinking the purchase of said bugs for two little boys’ Easter baskets.
- I always called Jack “baby” until Liam arrived. Then Liam became the baby. Since I’ve been unable to stop my practice of calling Jack baby, I ended up cutting myself off in the middle of the word and turning it to “babe.” Now he’s recently started calling me babe, and it makes me laugh. “Here ya go, babe!” he says today, handing me a miniscule pebble of dirty, formerly-blue Play Doh. Thanks, babe.
Growing old gracelessly.
