…I’d seen Chelsea Wolfe walking around the club beforehand. She was wearing a black (what I believe to be) monkey fur coat. It was enormous making her hard to miss. She stuck out like some rare bird on exhibit at a millionaire’s party at the beginning of the industrial revolution. When I looked at her, her eyes and head turned down in the fashion of someone who spent a childhood being tormented by far less special creatures.
On stage she arranged some items, most of which were obscured by the greasy black hair of a goth in front of me, but I think I saw the skull of an Ibex. A waifish male uncovered a keyboard from under a heavy black sheet; a miniscule violinist prepared herself. The crowd murmured its drunken excitement.
Before that night I don’t think I ever heard a woman properly sing.
She looked like a witch in a Hammer horror film and sang like an angel. Her voice cut through the air and into the soul of every person there. It was colder than the night and bit twice as hard.
Her manner is effortless, that voice needs no provocation. I find myself wishing Chelsea and I were friends so that when I was feeling the world was just a great big ball of shit I could call her up and have her sing to me and remind me something’s out there are beautiful.
If I had to complain, the set just wasn’t long enough.