As if Fado were just a word. We who love this music know it puts into notes what the heart cannot say. We know God’s tongue is Portuguese.
J: Could you turn that down a little? (Why am I not surprised?)
Somewhere in these songs are the cries of ecstasy that all too often hide the breaking hearts.
Suddenly I am not white, I have no prick. But I listen and of these losses I care not a whit.
It’s what happens when music pours into an emptied heart.