[identity profile] cabaretlights.livejournal.com


Where the Fence Is Low
Artist: Lights
Album: Siberia
Year: 2011
: Sometimes I have a very hard time letting go. So immediately, so conclusively, some things slip away; some things stay. And stay. And stay. And stay, long past their expiration date, long past the time anyone would consider healthy, long past the time they lasted. I look at myself and can objectively say I don't respect you, not right now, and it won't matter. I can make excuses: oh, the lasting effect has to do with me, with how I have changed, not with what changed me, but my head/heart live in symbols, in deeper meanings, in concepts -- I associate too strongly, sometimes.

The one thing I wanted to do this summer was explore the city and find new cafes, to treat Montreal as foreign, bring my book and my headphones from latte to latte. But Montreal -- my Montreal -- wasn't mine anymore. St-Henri, the Summit, the Boulevard, Westmount Park, Walkley, Ste-Catherine and Gladstone --- connotations connotations connotations. I couldn't go anywhere without a twist in my stomach.

On Sunday, I set out to reclaim those associations.

Sun and running shoes and headphones and a vague destination (Notre-Dame) and Lights' freshly-leaked album.

I walked through St-Henri. I stared James Lyng in its concrete face. I stopped for a flawless iced latte at Lili & Oli, read about the philosophy of science. I walked home through Westmount Park, passing Ste-Cat/Gladstone on the way, taking it in, making them mine.

And Lights.
Siberia is the perfect example of a sophomore album: she's experimenting, developing, and succeeding. The light dubstep elements work beautifully; her voice is slowly maturing, her melodies just as stirring, her lyrics a little more adult.
Lights saved my heartbeat, like Florence, on Stage #3.
Now, she (or her song, anyway)'s going to be my inspiration.
She played this song at Osheaga and I liked it a lot, but music needs its time and its place. This will be September 25, 2011; this will be Indian summer, in temperature and in the twist in my stomach.

One foot on the ledge, I'm feeling for safety
Somewhere between 'sure' and 'I don't know, maybe'
I'm off of my rope here, I'm off on my own here
I find my hope here, I find my own here.

The associations still aren't quite mine,
but Sunday was.
I don't feel quite so pathetic anymore.
I'll get there.

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