Annelies Monseré
Helder

I am the one-who-likes-whispery voices, and slow, intense music.

She is the one who whispers. Hers is intense and slow music.
When simplicity brushes against telepathy: the piano melody is/is the same as her voice, which is skewed, in a way (for this reason more beautiful).
Sweet, with a composed and precious sweetness, with an ancient flavor.
Little else appears: a cello, a melodica, a xylophone.
The notes follow one another calmly, but with an intimate tension, like the smiles of a girl you can't quite figure out.
I find myself, catatonic, searching for her continually, one day I love her, the next day I love her more, the day after: no. (Moody, me).
Moody and lunar, she (her bow can be wonderfully dissonant), and catatonic, she, spectral, in a way.
Just like a certain Matt Elliott, who is no longer alone with his gloomy "post-folk" (because folk he is, but surely also elegantly post-something, like her... Post-spirit and post-intellect? Perhaps a post-metropolitan chic? Who knows).
Because it-is-not-now that I can know what I think of this atypical angel; who suddenly illuminates and needs time.
But surely I will sleep wonderfully, and more serenely, tonight, for at least three reasons.
(We’ll Dance, These Streets, and Cold Night...  but perhaps also others).

...Ah, I almost forgot, Annelies Monseré is (I couldn't believe it either) Belgian.