Music is strange. Can be soothing. Or, on the other hand, that bad boy might be tempestuous. You know, like sunshine in the morning and hailing up a storm at night. Some days are dry. Other times, too many of our hours be wet. Especially when the wetness actually comes from our own tears flooding up our lives. You know what I’m saying?
I have written about this conjure woman before here. You can go and check it out, I don’t need to be repeating myself. You can read for yourself my appreciations, my reactions to Alice Smith’s singing, especially since I have provided direct links, thereby enabling you to judge for yourself.
Howsoever, what I do want to mention is that Alice Smith sings from the inside out. You don’t get to holla like this if you ain’t never been hurt. This is the voice of experience, and you don’t get to be truly experienced unless you done felt some pain, some bone deep pain (maybe even bone breaking: an arm, a leg, could be a foot, or your skull billy-club cracked open). Indeed, in some weirdly justified ways, shit could cost us our lives when the po-po decide to make an example of us.
And if you are someone that has so far dodged hardships, well, if you live, your time will come. Because into each life, some rain. . . besides, as the philosopher Melvin Van Peebles, presciently noted: a birth certificate ain’t nothing but a death warren, anyway. If you live, you got to die–the only question is what will you do with your little lifetime in between birth and death.
But don’t worry about messing around trying to figure out the mysteries of life, right now we are being impressed by Ms. Smith and the super-emotional way she got with notes in her throat. Indeed, the fact is, I believe her sound come from further down in her anatomy.
Some of her music is not suitable for children nor inexperienced adults, and certainly not appropriate for the average office space where mostly pop, soft rock, and/or quiet jazz or cool classical music are streamed. She be singing about shit you got to go deep to hear. Like butt-naked, dressed only in the honesty of anguish, anger and/or “just can’t help yourself” obsession; plus you are fully aware that giving your all to a love that hurts, well. . .if you been there you know.
By the way, if you Google “Alice Smith” you can get to hear a bunch of her music. What you waiting for? Why read my verbal rambling when you could be listening to the real deal. Go on, nah. These words will be here for long as the internet is working. But right now, go check out Ms. Smith.
What I got here are four variations of spells put on ya. You might not dig all of them, and a couple might even sound somewhat repetitive. But that’s the way of the world, ain’t nothing too much new under the sun. Might be new to us or different from what we be used to, but just cause we have yet to dig it, don’t mean it is something teetotally original, never ever been done before.
Besides, who says our arms are long enough to even much shadow box with the creator? Really our lifetimes are too brief to completely, much less accurately, comprehend the universe. We can’t even map out the history of our humanity, which ain’t all that long, compared to how long the earth been supporting life forms, you know bugs, fish, birds and four-leggeds, not to mention everything specific from mosquitoes to dinosaurs. Life been around for quite a spell. Much, much longer than us.
In the universal context, humanity is just a brief zit on the face of history. Besides, that pimple gonna eventually dry up, pop, or least wise disappear, ’cause ugly don’t last forever. Sun gonna shine. . . We just gotta ride out the hard times, spit out the bitter and savor the sweet whensoever we get a little taste. Meanwhile, get yourself inspirated by a healthy hearing of Alice Smith. That woman can sang. Period. Full stop.