Her Ghost

Fiona walks out on stage, the sullen purple lights reflecting the whiteness of her nightgown. She sits at the piano, delicate, but unsteady: like she hasn’t walked in a while. She is shrugging that Fiona shrug and “Get Him Back” fumbles its way out of her fingers into the speakers.

Fiona is a ghost. The dark circles under her eyes--menacing in the naked glow of the stage lights--are magnified by the whiteness of her almost transparent skin. She drifts across the stage like an apparition, floating, seemingly footless beneath her liquid dress. Her sinewy shoulders peak out from behind her nightgown straps, and they jerk around from time to time; the spirits within her pushing for emancipation.

But ghost or not, she sings like a bird. Her voice skips elegantly above the music like a flat stone over a calm river. At times, she is channeling Billie Holiday, or Etta James. Other times, she is Janice Joplin, and the demons are almost screaming to get out of her.

At times, you feel like you’re watching someone resolve her innermost problems, up there in front of thousands of people. She’ll drop to her knees and sing on the ground, seemingly battling an emotional vertigo, but then propels herself back up to sing “Fast as you Can.” The mellow moments were exceedingly mellow, almost 1950s jazz. The energetic moments were fierce and quick and brooding with intensity.

Fiona’s ghost may be the shell of some broken woman from days past, but her shell glitters with the brilliance of a diamond.

____________

Damien Rice opened the night and he rather impressed me with his attack and energy. He’s mostly known for his slower songs, and for singing out of tune on his records, and although he did a little of that, Damien’s voice was great. The timbre and character in his voice overcome those moments when he’s a little pitchy, but those moments were few and far between (which surprised me, seeing as his best-known hit has him singing uncomfortably off key).

We ran into Damien (almost literally) coming out of the show. The parking situation was overwhelming, so we wanted to make sure we’d be able to get to our cars and get the hell outta there. On the way out, we saw a very little man (all the good singers seem to be so short!) walking in front of us with a small entourage of musicians carrying their instruments. Lo and behold, Mr. Damien Rice. So I pinched his bum.

I was waiting for an appearance by Jon Brion, but it was not to be. I guess the tendonitis has kept him from doing any playing. I hope he comes back to music soon!

Now that I seem to be going backwards in the evening, I’ll take you to my afternoon where Dara, her friend Malinda, and I were walking around Santa Monica, and the 3rd Street Promenade. Good times were had by all.

Time for bed.