Dear Ms. Case,
Let me begin by stating what soon will become glaringly obvious: I am no stalker. I am just a fan, not an uberfan. Not a crazed fan. Not a 'waiting-at-the-venue-side-door-to-steal-a-post-concert-glimpse' fan. No. I am merely a fan. I am also a fan of peering through high-powered, fog-proof, night-vision binoculars. And if I want to combine two of my interests into one evening, where's the crime? If anything, it's a crime of efficiency.
Of course I'm only joking. But, since I don't possess your vocal ability to make we mere mortals weep, I thought I would ply you with some humor. An icebreaker, if you would.
In order to shed some light on why I'm writing this letter, perhaps I should explain its impetus. You see, I've only recently come upon your music in the last few years. Via The New Pornographers'
Twin Cinema album, to be precise. After hearing that other-worldly voice soar over the music like some raven-haired bald eagle (that makes no sense), I came away with two very salient thoughts. First, I felt appreciation for having lived to experience your vocal beauty. Second, that appreciation was immediately snuffed out by the notion that I had spent so many years without it. It made me reflect on my life, on how things may have been different (better) for me had I known of you earlier. It's like that fable about the crack whore who turned tricks to support her habit only to discover that her dilapidated house was made of crack. Sure, she was elated to freely smoke her ottoman through a glass pipe, but what about all those lost years of banging ugly dudes for a fix.
In case I lost you somewhere in that jumbled cautionary tale, I do NOT do crack... or ugly dudes.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, my discovery. So, since that first listen, I've been entranced by your voice. So much so, I resisted the temptation of seeing a picture of you, fearing the inevitable letdown of something so beautiful being sullied by it's physical appearance. And yes, I've been burned. Let's just say that phone sex should remain just that. And I just couldn't have that happen to me again. So, I resisted.
Dissolve to (to denote a passage of time) October 26th, 2007. Webster Hall. You. Me. Gordon Gano. Add it up! Seeing you live for the first time was -- forgive my hyperbole -- nice. Real nice. I tried to close my eyes to sustain my blind adoration for you, but I couldn't refrain. Plus, try ordering a beer with your eyes closed and see what kind of service you get. So I succumbed...
Wow.
You, Ms. Case, are the complete package: voice, stage presence, personality, charisma. And the kicker? You're HOT! You don't even need those other things and yet you do. What a pleasant surprise. I have to say I was really nervous after my friend said that you had a lot of indie cred. You don't have to be a mathematician to know that indie cred = not hot. But in this case, math lied. Math lied beautifully.
I know this is going to sound kinda weird, but I think we may have locked eyes a few times that night. My friend said it's impossible because the floor was dark and we were pretty far from the stage. I think my friend doesn't hide his jealousy well. To refresh your memory, there was a heavyset, balding guy standing stage left, yelling 'NEKO, NEKO' over and over again. Remember that? Anyway, I was the athletic looking, locks-aflowing fellow behind him who kept telling him to shut the fuck up and get out of our sight line.
If you remember me, please drop me a line. I'd really like to get to know you more. No pressure. Just remember, I know what you look like now.
Another joke.
Gotcha.
