Rachel Manteuffel is a writer of upsetting talent. She’s also a good actor. We met when I interviewed her a few years ago for a video I made about a play she was in. But I was already a fan of her writing then. That’s the gift she has that I actually resent and feel threatened by.
My only consolation is the knowledge — because we’re friends, you see; we talk — that her brilliance is not extempore. She works very, very hard to be this good. She earns it.
…and then she sends you a dashed off, steam-of-consciousness e-mail that’s funnier than anything you’ve ever flushed away a weekend sweating over. Continue reading
So your problem with Norah Jones is what, exactly? Do you hate her because she’s beautiful? Because your mom likes her records? Because people have bought 35 million of them? Do you find it disrespectful to the honored dead that she sings like Dusty Springfield, even if that means her singing is lovely? Do those lulling, breathy pipes make it hard to tell, even after four studio albums, if she’s a good songwriter? Do you wish Ravi Shankar was your dad instead of hers?
Get over it. Or don’t. On the evidence of the latte chanteuse’s pleasant if not revelatory 90-minute set at the Warner Theatre on Friday night, it don’t make no nevermind to her. Ease is her thing, not exertion.
Read the review in its brief entirety on Click Track.