I love this woman

With every last shred of my medium sized, only-partially-blighted, preshrunk American soul.
Watch it and be entranced. Go ahead.




All hail Regina Spektor.

Last month at Toad's Place I stood about 3 feet away from the teacup sized singer whilst she gave what's easily the best live performance I've seen. Though she welcomed on stage a bassist, perhaps one (two!?) guitarists and a percussionist, she tickled/banged/caressed out almost all of her new album, Begin To Hope, on the ivories, solo. Despite having a cold, Regina sang like a particularly winsome angel between her ladylike sniffles and the decidedly unladylike (but outrageously endearing) hocking of something I'd even term a "cute" loogey into a roll of toilet paper. For anyone who's read Kafka's "Josephine The Singer, or The Mousefolk," the depressive Czech wrote of Josephine's particularly moving "piping," and though he was poking some oblique fun at Josephine when he said this, I make none of Regina when I say she pipes quite beautifully.

I'll admit I do have a bit of a girl crush on Regina Spektor (not even mucous can diminish my love!), so I'm a bit biased. And I'm okay with that. But please--don't take my word for how amazing she is: do yourself a favor and go buy Begin To Hope, Eleven Eleven, Songs, or Soviet Kitsch and proceed to become as thoroughly enamored as I am. Or when you see me ask me to whip out my iPod and I'll give you a truly fine Regina sampling and preach to you the wonders of her mythologically laden, lyrically sparkling little gems. Forget pleasing: I aim to convert. :)