In the group homes where I worked once upon a time, there were many people with unusual flairs for describing the world. A tough young woman named Janice stood out for poetic bluntness. About other girls who lived in the group home, if they had wild poofy hair she would say they had “come fuck me hair”. An expression that amazed me and over time in my mind it morphed with thoughts about certain singer songwriters. This one guy I see at the open stage always plays in the same slow dimension, sort of melancholy and then adds unexpected long pauses. It’s as if the emotion he is feeling causes him to stop being in time. At first they are powerful because of being unexpected and vulnerable, but then he repeats it and again and again. it becomes a trick like a dog shaking a paw for a cookie. Whatever might have been authentic disappears and it only feels phony. I have to leave the room. I think if Janice was next to me we would say he is a “fuck me I’m so sensitive” singer songwriter.