I remember exactly
the first time I heard that name. A friend who went to see her show somewhere
in Scotland told me about how great Amanda Palmer was. How physical. How much
work she’d put into her performance. How she gave it all. How intense the show
was. How exhausted she looked afterwards.
Mind you, not a word
about the music.
Which, to be honest,
doesn’t really stretch all that far. All balls and no tunes. The Dresden Dolls’
first record is decent enough, but memorable melodies? Sorry, no, we don’t
write those. We put cabaret into punk and punk into cabaret, ain’t that enough?
Again, imagining beats reality, even if I do appreciate a few of those songs.
What I absolutely can’t
appreciate is Amanda Palmer, and I’m always happy to hear the voice of
agreement. Seeing a four-star review of her recent show made me burst with
righteous indignation. I mean, look at those fucking pictures.
Apparently, though,
she gave it all.
