And so it happened. Last night. An evening I will probably never have the pleasure of witnessing again. Norah Jones live in India. Standing barely 12 feet away from her pretty self (despite having the cheapest tickets har har), screaming a bit hysterically, and then getting goose bumps at the start of every single track.
That white-faced splotch on the left is Norah herself. Small, petite, so effing gorgeous. No frills, just plain old good music. She came, she belted them out one after another like she owned the evening. And she took a bow and she left. That’s my kind of artist. The kind that lets the music do the talking.
The white-faced splotch to the right (her left) is her incredibly energetic, I’m-totally-rocking-this-lead-guitaring-for-Norah-Jones-thing, looking rather cute despite his superbly tight jeans. I think the way he enjoyed himself took the hot-factor up a gazillion notches.
The rest of her band was beyond impressive. Super prepped, tight, seamlessly going from one track to the next. You idolize a musician when you’ve heard so much of her music online, on CDs and by abusing youtube, and then you hear her live. And you realise, man, the woman can sing.
I went. I listened. I swooned. And then I died and went to heaven.