Jenny Lewis Has Finally Weakened My Knees

Because I am an old fart, I remain stoic in the face of "Next Big Things." Because I am an old fart with almost 6,000 records and CDs in the house, I am usually wise in doing so. The hype surrounding Jenny Lewis set off my bullshit detectors for two reasons: she is by most definitions (not necessarily my own) hot, which fucks with listeners perceptions, and she's indie, and--I do not make this observation flippantly, but after much research--indie lowers the bar for hot, breathy chicks that write or perform a little idiosyncratically. If I were a nihilist, Regina Spektor and that harp-playing scar on the face of rock and roll (I cannot even utter her name) would be six feet under in some swamp. So...though I have to admit I liked some of her Rilo Kiley lines...I kept Miss Lewis at arm's length. This despite a student's passionate exaltations--a student obviously inspired, in her writing and guitar playing, by Miss Lewis herself.

Well, against my better judgment (I thought), I put Lewis' solo Rabbit-Fur Coat disc in the pickup CD player to just assure I was being fair, and had my hat knocked in the creek. Mostly, it's her writing--damn near free association, but logical and rhyming and specific and imaginative and funny and evocative. Her voice is richer; I have an unrestrained hatred for Anglo geishas, but she doesn't push that button much (a few times, yes), but rather relies on a rich, really sexy, soulful delivery that doesn't need coos and whispers to make a man pay attention. I hear she's bringing sexy back with the new Rilo Kiley, but--late as it is--I can tell you she's sold me, and I WILL be paying attention from now on.