Working nights as I do is dangerous. What with Youtube and such. You wake up in the morning, pour your soy milk over your shredded wheat, and realize:
I just spent the night falling head over heals in love with Feist.
I know, I know, I can already hear you saying, "What about Regina Spektor?"
Look, I'm not saying it wasn't a spektacular year with her--and you have to admit, my affair with her lasted a good deal longer than the disastrous Natalie Imbruglia phase--but she never, I don't know, responded to me, per se, in a way that made me feel like she was as into it as I was. And her music will always have a prominent place in my home, because you can't expect something so deep and meaningful to just wash away with the next rain, you know?
Not that I don't get what you're getting at. I know I haven't listened to Tori Amos in years. But you have to remember: She left me. One day she was looking me right in the eye as I sat in the fifth row. The next day she was surrounded by screaming teenage girls and didn't have the time. It took me a long time to move on. Ran around with Fiona Apple for a while. Even had a fling with Charlotte Gainsbourg--although we both knew it was only because she was ostensibly French, and because the girl from Portishead was so inaccessible and smoked too much.
Look, this wouldn't even be an issue if Audrey Hepburn hadn't decided to get old and die. How do you think that feels?
So believe me when I say, me and Feist are for real. Because at some point, in the cold light of the morning, Desperado has to come to his senses.