An aloof opening line where Lindsey Ferguson channels Lou Reed and Adam Green (Moldy Peaches) and her mature rambling voice that echoes in the prime of youth and the domain of talented girlhood.
Some could say we were listening to the songs of Anne Sexton performing menial jobs and basically striking the goldmine with the horrific almost megalomaniac sound of “Being A Girl” (in a good way), and the performative howls are similar to Regina Spektor and the brusque storytelling akin to Kimya Dawson (again, Moldy Peaches).
There’s a brutal veneer to the finish of each song and yet their polish has a touch of aching, as though internal organs were being perforated with each jilted touch, an aging with distinction. There in the wan parking lots of suburbia we gather like swarms and collect chattering grave temples.
“Being A Girl” is a reference for woman-war or the spectacle of a shamanistic task of turning night into daylight. When one runs through the voluminous depths of “Being A Girl” there is something bookish to its quality and its storytelling is a translation of sinews and incisors gripping the prow and the front steering wheel as though invoking the Holy Ghost.
Silent nods and the heavy shutter of gravity egging the fruition of childhood dreams as the break of a tiny glass from the grip of one’s hand begins the tidal wave of brooding and motionlessness. Lindsey Ferguson brings the rare gift of montage and laser like perusal of the thoughtful and process of living that is a house of spirit.
Written by Hari Palacio
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