In all the excitement surrounding the move to France, I forgot, ignored or blocked from my mind the fact that my carefully crafted relocation plan meant that I’d be stuck in Paris during the summer.
The place sucks in summer. Invaded by thundering herds of Texans, whose braying accents can be heard clearly above the chatter of the millions of other visitors who descend ravenously on La Ville Lumière, one of the most beautiful cities in the world turns into a chaotic, cacophonous mess, making the natives who either have to stay to feed the tourists or lack the means to get the fuck out one very, very grumpy bunch of people.
And it gets hot. Sticky hot. Smelly hot. Don’t-get-fucking-near-me hot. In dressing for sex, the sophisticated girl’s options are limited to belly chains, nipple clamps and g-strings. Forget the leather collar, forget the leather harness and forget the leather boots. It’s going to be too fucking hot for the full meal deal.
The prospect of two months without leather makes yours truly a very, very grumpy bitch.
Having grown up in San Francisco (where summers are colder than a Minnesota winter) and having then lived in Seattle (where summer lasts as long as it will take me to write this review), I’m programmed to perform in cooler climes. The thought of a hot, sweaty body dripping perspiration all over my sensitive skin turns me off faster than a photograph of Wayne LaPierre. I don’t have to worry about the NRA here, but I do have to concern myself with the fact that I’ll be facing two months of unpleasant heat—and during that time, I’m going to have needs, people! The only air conditioning I can access is in the office, and I’m certainly not going to transform my office into a playroom! What I need to overcome my aversion to hot and sticky is something to reprogram my brain so that I can convince myself that hot and sticky can mean . . . hot and sticky.
I need Sasha Dobson.
Sasha Dobson is a jazz singer recently reclassified as a singer-songwriter. That sounds like we’re filling a filing cabinet, and as is often the case with genres, it completely fails to capture the experience of her music. It’s more accurate to say that she is a singer with an exceptional ability to find the groove of a song and create the magic we call mood. Her jazz experience makes her aware of possibilities in melody and phrasing that elude the average singer, and she is blessed with a voice that reminds me of a sweet alto sax or the feel of Chambord as it slowly coats the throat and warms the cockles. She is sultry and sexy but not in the manufactured Madonna style. The combination of her essential sincerity, an amazing voice and a supporting cast of musicians who also know how to find the groove makes Aquarius a perfect album to put you in the mood, whatever the weather.
Aquarius opens with “Couldn’t Let You Go,” a song that captures the feeling of intense desire that burns brightly despite physical or metaphorical distance. I love the opening line, “Once we danced along the diamond sky,” but I love even more how Sarah’s voice oscillates between woman and child, from experience to innocence. The backing music establishes the general mood of the album, one of consciously chosen restraint, like the prolonged tension we experience in great foreplay. The rhythm is basic but intense; the guitar is limited to two-note chords on the lower strings; the bass mirrors the steady pounding of the heart as the heat slowly rises.
“Always Be Mine” begins almost a “come with me to the Casbah” feeling in the verse, with the guitar notes stretching to create unexpected chord combinations through single-note picking. The verses reflect a feeling of trying to get one’s head around something and taking a roundabout route to get there, but all doubt is removed when Sasha finds a mantra in the chorus: “All I ever wanted/all I ever need . . . ” You don’t need to fill in the blanks with anything explicit to get the meaning. “Full Moon” follows, a song with a film noir storyline that mirrors the smoky sultriness of that genre:
Red in her eyes
red in her hand
blood in her mind
Lovers making out
It’s a full moon outYour tongue’s in his mouth
He didn’t even try
Tongue in his ear
gun in her hand
Lovers making out.