Just been enjoying the new Norah Jones album. When young I would have dismissed quite a bit of it (I think) as sentimental and therefore insincere. Same with those fantastic late works by Johnny Cash. It takes time before you realize that someone really could feel like that, and, if they did, that they would want to make art out of it.
This would have been a tweet, but it was too long.
I am backlogged on things to blog about (I have a list) and email to answer. And I have a pile of unopened letters. November.
Blogger’s spelling checker flags “blog” as an unrecognised word!
Norah Jones (two of whose previous albums I have but not the latest, yet) reminds me of Sade. Hers is the album you pick for a dinner party: quiet, inoffensive, very pleasant, but it’ll never be an ear worm and an hour after you listen to it you won’t be able to remember any of the tracks. Not that this is a bad thing particularly, it’s just how it is.
I first became aware of her through catching an earworm — that song ‘Don’t know why’.