Aimee Mann, on stage with a fine band, is ... brilliant.
An American in the throng said "awesome", but friends know I save up the superlatives, don't want to run out of them!
The Paris concert on 'The Forgotten Arm' (album link) tour, telling some of the story of Aimee's new "concept album", judiciously woven among older songs that had long-standing fans in an aged, packed theatre applauding with the first notes, was a wonderful end to a week I'll remember as special.
The musicians were very together and they rocked, taking occasional airy solos, giving us ballads -- Aimee called one a "lullaby" -- and dancing jubilation and at times indeed she had some of us gloriously 'Lost in Space', all ears.
She brings humour and spontaneity to the brief moments between songs with superb lyrics (if my first live performance by one of the VoWs now I like giving them most of this log sets a trend for those to follow, then heaven might help those who help themselves).
 The picture caused a whistle or two at work, but someone's "waif" remark is no word for a woman who's slender proof that looks alone really are deceptive. So was the eyebrow-raising ticket fee, but Aimee and her pale arms can channel so much warm energy on the night the radiance is priceless.
La Cigale, up in the northern Pigalle district, has kept most of its balcony but seen much of the ground floor cleared for standing room only. It needed it.
After a very generous show, any desire to ask Aimee more about a return to the early 1970s with a story of an ill-fated love affair and a road trip across the States was gone, and if it was no part of her own life, the songs and her introductory words made it an everybody's tale someplace.
Editing this has been done on a day unusual for how I've so far kept more music out of mind, still full of the treasure we were given. Any thought of where it's taken me comes best at the end. Then we'll move on...
Aimee followed half a dozen contributions from Norway's Robert Post (his place; Eng.), a good acoustic guitarist and singer-songwriter with a first single out, 'Got None,' and his two British mates to know they might have a career ahead for some to write up.
Post was unexpected with a tough warm-up job, disarming the first crowd in a steadily arriving audience by giving his name, adding it's all he can say in French and took vocal risks that paid off by the time they finished with 'The Way We Are'.
I warmed to them, so did most; we heard nothing very original but it was pleasing after a difficult start where Robert reminded us the voice, like many instruments, has to warm up itself if you want to jump it up and down as much as he does.
Post was modest about his luck ... or pluck ... being with Aimee and her band.
They brought perfect pace throughout a long evening apart from one "Christ, that was awful," which it was, and a major retune where the easy banter started.
French audiences are enthusiastic ... and incorrigible! I wondered if she realised what a lusty chorus of yells, "A poil!", from men who forgot themselves meant. If she felt any inclination to take off her jeans and a flashy red top, Aimee ignored it. She and band member Paul have taken up boxing, difficult in hotel rooms, she told us instead, and if men don't like hitting a woman or being pounded by one, "he doesn't have that problem."
Enough people understood to sustain the fun.
Maybe she tells most audiences she's never known a better one; Aimee was having a wildly good time, stopped to take photos herself, and shared her music well. She and the band chose a fine selection spanning years of musicianship. For her final encore she sung 'I've Had It', claiming she'd not done this for years; that wasn't how it sounded, but she's been around since long before I knew about her.
All I'd have given Aimee later was a kiss to say "Thanks". Many hung around while my long walk in the rain brings me here without a hoot for the hour. Watching real professionals performing live is great, sometimes I did and often I closed my eyes for ages: I'm one of those.
Her mellow voice has a large audience already. If I can broaden it for people like Aimee and help give one to VoWs who are less well-known, then I take up the "job" with pleasure.
Aimee began her tour in Germany on June 29. From here she goes to Belgium, then Ireland, then the UK and you can visit the Mann home to find much more, through August, no longer in Europe.
Life with ears: fewer ideas?
If this comes as good news and I've done part of the job, music will do the rest.
I wasn't going to spell it out, but shall.
My policy is to take each voice as it comes. You won't get the comparisons of singer-songwriters and very little of the "she sounds like" game many enjoy. Who cares?
I don't doubt the birthday woman was there; we never saw each other despite a message I left. That was fine.
I'm sure she loved Aimee's evening and while the singer-songwriter mentioned London, she had the grace to leave out words about the week and lifted a high heart further, since mine are said and other people's will last me for days. But I cheated. After I glanced at the very long street line, a press card came out with my ticket and got me into a good seat.
Bad behaviour perhaps, my queue-jumping.
Never mind. It takes us on from words about one of the best of the many concerts in my life, since wanting to say more about Aimee and ever less about me opens an avenue full of wonders and confirms hints of where this log's going.
As I get better at this, like picking up a bicycle where I left it in 1980 for France, you'll read plenty of what the VoWs say but I shan't ask for formal interviews. I shall have relaxed exchanges with them sometimes if they like, taking risks of my own and I'll commend you to articles by others who do the same.
Léa, a new friend. You nearly came tonight. Since you had to head south, here's what's right up your broad avenue. sinceOndarock is Italian. Like trilingual you, it takes risks and has a wide open mind.
Your lovely mail suggests you might lend me Italian and I'll ... send back a mail about your ideas. But the closest I'll go to a "sounds like" -- telling you more about writers than the woman we're with -- is an "If you enjoy, then how about...?"
The only people who know how their art is influenced by that of others are the singers. If we hear more, it's usually easy to ask but ventures a guess.
You may guess which singer I write about was so often shelved with Tori Amos, she once said she admires Tori but stopped listening to her music because of the comparisons and her wish to be herself.
I've lost count of how many women are told they sound like Tori, often just because they focus on a piano more than other instruments and share what's in their hearts and on their minds. Neil Sandman's nocturne is closer to home and less dangerous.
If Tori makes much of the comparisons, I'd be surprised. We make the myths, not musicians ... take the composers who never got to Symphony No 10 "because" Beethoven didn't; it's true a handful thought this. Gustav Mahler never finished No 10 and wasn't alone, but that's musicology for scholarly ears. If you find both Amos and Mahler at the Wikipedia, "sounds like" could keep you up all night.
I forgot to eat lunch, looked at the clock and said "Fuck" so loudly everyone turned round and somebody offered me soap. Instead, I opted for Vitamin C and the reward was a feast.
Since February 2003, people have read me learning my own darkness and light. Some have turned away, some say I gave them a hand, some think I'm nuts, some do better without thinking, but what I do most of the time isn't worth more words. Tonight was one of life's miracles, hours when I stopped thinking.
In sharing the magict, Aimee's "message" was that of many who has explored enough of themselves to know where they're going and say music is their life.
It's nothing new for me to say: "What if our lives are music?"
It might be new to say it here, but I shan't think about it any more because I've heard and seen enough people behave as if the two are one and the same. Beyond this, I'm speechless on that and would rather try to stay in tune with myself, others and what I feel beyond us and any of our words.
That's music on the house.
Thank you, Ms Mann.
How many beers did you say you'd buy tonight? I know you'll find, in Brussels, nicer beer than in most places in Paris.
Bedtime. That calls for yoghurt...
Once I was up four hours later I thought these latter words might be beer too small to spill here. I guess not. The cup is running over, so if you're soaked, best clear it up now. No looking back.
4:39:40 AM link 
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