Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist
I have said it before and I will say it again. Chrissie Hynde may very well possess the Sexiest Voice in Rock and Roll.
The Voice of Chrissie Hynde is not Sexy in the coquetteish, schoolgirl manner of Vapid Pop Diva #12, not Sexy like Barely Legal Provocateur faking orgasm over unearthly drumbeats and empty lyrics. The Voice is not lingerie-model Sexy; there are no photos of the Voice hanging in the bathrooms of rural auto body shops. This is not the Sexy of stalled imagination.
The Voice of Chrissie Hynde is Sexy like life experience, a Voice ferocious and tender and longing and demanding. The Voice of Chrissie Hynde is somebody you met in a bar shortly after a terrible breakup, somebody who knew you were in pain and bought you a drink and listened as you slurred out half-coherent words amounting to little more than the name of your heartache, over and over again. The Voice nodded attentively and fixed its gaze on every glistening curve of your eyes and then decided to take you as a lover.
The Voice does this. It does not seduce or play bullshit courting games, it simply takes a lover. And for this moment the lover the Voice takes is you. And for this moment the Voice loves you with every fiber, loves you with the energy of dying stars, loves you with the all-consuming partnership of oceans and time. The Voice erodes every layer of you and lays bare your core; finds the warmth within you and dips a solitary finger within the pool of your being, forming subtle ripples that build to tremors that build to new worlds arising in the seams of your rejoicing skin. The Voice is lust and calmed tectonics; the brutal innocence of Pangaea.
In the quiet of the darkness afterward, the Voice speaks a lost language no louder than a gentle wind, that melts on your ears like wisps of history. The Voice has felt passion and sorrow on every possible level and now these are shared with you. Not that you understand. You cannot understand. You are content simply to lie next to the Voice, willing your eyes to remain open, until at last you fail, and you do not simply fall asleep under the blanket of the Voice, you plummet.
You know when you awake the Voice will be gone.
And when you awake. The Voice is gone.
The Voice of Chrissie Hynde is Sexy in the way it one day shows up at your front door, long after you have found yourself and built an existence you are satisfied with, when the love you currently have is fulfilling and wonderful. The Voice has traveled a circuit of the world once again and has landed back in front of you, with seemingly no other purpose than to have seen you again. And if the Voice were to ask, you would abandon everything for but one more minute of that lost yet lingering sensation of being naked in its presence again.
But the Voice does not ask. The Voice smiles at you. The Voice resigns to the loneliness of itself, and then it is gone again.
The Voice of Chrissie Hynde is Sexy in the distinctive semantics of the word Woman. It is not Feminine, it is Woman.
It admits to bearing children and defies you to be repelled by it. It admits to desire and defies you to match it. The Voice admits nothing of fault and yet admits it has flaws.
This is what I hear in the Voice of Chrissie Hynde. There is something in it I can only describe as legendary, like the tempered nobility of Norse gods. It is Sexy in a raw colorful burst of spirit.
It is the Sexiest Voice in Rock and Roll.