As I said to RFC colleague Erin the other day, I firmly subscribe to the belief that "writing about music is like dancing about architecture." Granted, I dance all the time and edit architecture books for a living. But ne'er the twain shall meet! Anyway, it's why I've never actually read Pitchfork or its ilk. We have the technology to hear music on demand, why would I want to read Rando Windbag's description of it? It's just my personal preference to head straight to the source (Hype Machine).
That said: Listening to Antony and the Johnsons makes me feel like a lilac-scented angel with white feathers for eyelashes is putting her face up to mine and fluttering the eyelashes all over me. It makes me feel serene and lucky to be near something so delicate and beautiful. I didn't quite know what to do with Antony Hegarty before the last album, I Am a Bird Now, and then I was obsessed. Before that I think his gender bending and warbling and earnestness confused me and I was being a coward, a damned emotional coward. And now suddenly I'm letting Ticketmaster rape my wallet and suggesting you do the same so that we can all see one of his legendary performances tonight at the Vic. I'm going alone and I'm not wearing mascara because I'll probably cry.