The Blues comes out of the soil, and it’s in our DNA—the same stuff as that of ancient peoples who worshipped even more ancient, strange gods. It’s bound tightly in our lizard brains. Galás sings from there, and that’s where she touches us, at a distance, with her voice. Evaluating her recordings and most specially her performances is pro forma and irrelevant. She sings the hell out of everything, and it doesn’t matter whether that’s good or bad, because either you crave the experience she gives you, or you fear it.
“I ate your book.”
“…Edgy models include Brooklyn Rail…”
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