If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to tell a story.
Over a decade ago, I went to a concert with my mother. The headline was Rufus Wainwright. I’m sure we presented quite a sight; the Grande Damme in Furs trotting smartly along with a skeletal giant loping languidly after her. I’m almost 2 meters tall, but in those days I barely weighed 12 stone, and could sidle between gate bars in some places. Mercifully, we had tickets, and no sidling was needed.
In the lobby of a tastefully modern (and therefore artless) theater, we discussed nothing of importance, and pointedly did not drink fancy, overpriced cocktails with the many homosexual men who milled about us. My mother has been a teetotaler since she was a child, and I was On Good Behavior. We were there for the music.
Opening for Rufus was a woman I’d never heard of: Anaïs Mitchell. I can still see her clearly: her floral sack-print dress was thin; almost as thin as her. It hung loosely around her, obscuring rather than revealing. Her voice, too, was thin; a warble, like a small bird. Far too thin and reedy for pop music, but then again she had no popular songs to play. Instead, she wanted to play a few songs from an Opera that she had just completed! A Depression-era reimagining of the Tale of Orpheus titled Hadestown. I sighed and rolled my eyes and resigned myself to boredom.
Like a lone bird on a frozen January morning, her delicate, thin voice crossed the icy, judgmental silence of hundreds of drunk hollywood queers to pierce our hearts. Nervously tapping her foot to keep time, alone with a single guitar up on that big stage, she called and returned to herself through How We Build The Wall and Our Lady of The Underground and The Wedding Song.
She sang of the dead, and of desperation. Of lean, hard people going through lean, hard times. There was too much emotion for her little larynx, and I could hear that the songs hurt to sing. All alone, tiny on that huge flat stage, she filled the air and our hearts with the song of a bird who forgot to fly south and was dying in the cold.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hold her delicately in a cage of my arms and lie to her that everything would be alright, that wounds close, and bones knit, and tears dry, and no one will ever hit you again. It was not and is not my place to do this, but that was my urge. She was a tiny bird that had been broken, and her song was one of pain.
I purchased the album immediately and listened to it over and over and over. It became a part of me. I learned Our Lady of The Underground and performed it for a crowd of friends. I sat with a bottle of gin and sang Why We Build The Wall when Trump was elected. One oppressively hot august day, I sang Nothing Changes very quietly to myself, swallowed poison, and tried to die. When I was courting my wife, I sang her The Wedding Song; it was and is the truest expression of my heart yet set to music.
Perhaps, now that I have said all this, you can imagine the breath and depth of my joy when I saw this:
She made it! She did it! Others will hear the music! I’m so happy for her!
I’m so glad. It’s beautiful. I hope it runs for a thousand years. Thank you, Anaïs.