Masha Qrella
Analogies

I'm sitting on the bed with an ice pack on my eye, swollen and purple. I look like a battered boxer and inside me echo compliments, pats on the back, and expressions of esteem and affection. The more I hear them, the less I believe, the more hugs I receive, the more the hits I took on the rugby field come to mind, yet I cannot associate any specific one with the one that wrecked my face. Compliments make me feel bad, and insults make me feel worse; I can't find the thread of this inner mess. To be honest, I already know it: it's the lack of self-esteem. The obsession with being a contrarian, a Don Quixote fighting against windmills (which, of course, don't exist). It can't always be others telling me that I'm worth something when the first not to believe it is me. It's not nice to always come back home with a long face, head down, as if an unforgivable sin weighed on your head. Before throwing oneself on the bed, there’s the car, the road, the car radio. And, unbelievably, for a moment, everything disappears.

It happens that in the car, there's Masha's album waiting for me. Dear Masha, know that you are always my soundtrack. Or at least the most exciting one. Every moment spent without you, without your concert, tastes of despair and makes me feel like a wounded soul. But there are others worse off than me: they waited 7 years (yes, seven!) for an album of yours. From the release to its arrival at my house, I waited a few months, this long and hot summer. I waited for it to be brought to me from Berlin and for a moment, I put aside the university books on my nightstand. 9+1 songs (the tenth is another version of "Fishing Buddies," a track from a show about "Brokeback Mountain" where Masha curated the soundtrack, note of the editor) in seven years: an abomination, a violence for lost lovers like us. Doled out to the limit, but maybe you did it on purpose, or perhaps you also demand too much from yourself. Maybe you pulled out dozens, hundreds of themes and guitar riffs, but they always seemed defective to you. You would say "yes, they're nice but ..." and then throw them away. That but, that doubt that grips you every day and doesn't let us live with the right calm. And it is a doubt only of ours: others are willing to wait for us and understand that sometimes mistakes can be made.

You made a stunning album, foregoing the bass and placing a lot of keyboards as if Ray Manzarek's lesson was in your mind. The album is mostly you: your voice sometimes comforting, sometimes tenacious, your guitars dominating the scene. Personally, I see it as a statement of intent: please, the DJ sets and tribute albums to Kurt Weil and Frederick Loewe are nice, but this is a marginal part of Masha. I am a singer-songwriter; for me, picking up a guitar and singing my songs makes me a happy woman. You wanted to remind us who you are. If I, too, reminded myself who I am, many of those bad thoughts wouldn't exist. I care about you. When I listen to you, I am a happy man, it is the greatest gift you could give me.