Last night while flipping channels I stopped for a few minutes on an Austin City Limits performance by someone named Kat Edmonson. I’d never heard of this woman before, and I was primed to dislike her. The guide description referred to her as a “jazz singer.” She had an upturned pixie nose, which is usually a slight turnoff for my deservedly high standards (because lord knows I’ve got God’s ideal nose and deserve only the best noses). She wore a cute red dress and stood, cutely, at the mic stand in front of a large band of musicians playing quietly and tastefully. She had a cute squeaky voice. Her music wasn’t bad, though, even for that kind of music. And she was cute in a pixie cute way, a bit of a cross between Naomi Watts and Kirsten Dunst in a pixie ‘do. Her songs were kind of cute, too, but stopped short of cloying.

The more I watched the more I actually appreciated her music—as much as I can appreciate that stuff—and just how cute I found her, in an attainable musician way. Isn’t that the point of rock ‘n roll (or related genres), according to my close personal friend E. Pluribus Gergely, to project youthful beauty while carrying a good tune? I was confused. I thought of my man BigSteve‘s Listen But Don’t Look Principle, which cautions against making musical judgments based on an artist’s visual presentation. I was caught in a possible reverse-Listen But Don’t Look conundrum: I may have been lured into liking this woman’s music because I dug how girly her overall vibe was. Yeah, that’s right: I dig girly girl stuff now and then!

I value my exquisite taste in music above almost all other qualities. Rarely do I find my powers of observation and cool-headed analysis swayed by something so primitive as a stirring in my loins, but last night I had to wonder if I was experiencing one of those only human moments I’ve tried to counsel many of you through. Continue reading »