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Take a Doo Wop piece and turn it into Soul Music. But real Soul Music.
Music of the soul, through and through. Only the soul takes the shape of the body, against another body. Blood carries it. It swells. It pumps the chest of the heart.
Bettye initially whispers more dryly and sharply than silence. Then she sings in a way that can only be described as sublime. Every word floats in the air, laden with desire and swollen with caresses (bordering on the indispensable-superfluous dichotomy). How she does it, we cannot know. Only feel it. Feel every word she utters, every syllable she distills, true for us and the color of the air.
We don't even want the song to reach its true form in reality, to achieve its image as a teardrop. A tremor is enough.
The crack of a kiss spills the penny from the hidden treasure.
Is time a certainty to dilate or a suggestion to flatten?
If you hear that arpeggio at the beginning and if you feel when she starts like a dark and relentless angel, you will hardly be able to say that there are two better beginnings (in succession). I can only say that I didn't know it. Nor do I know. But I feel feeble!
In the morning, I want to always wake up like this. For a million years. And in the evening be held tight.
For this, thank you Bettye.
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