Thursday, September 27th, 2012

Wanting – You Exist in My Song

Purely coincidence we run these first two songs on the same day, yessiree…


Anthony Easton: That piano is just absurd, and the whispery vocals over that absurd piano bring me to that magic place where I’m so swoony that I may as well collapse on a pure caramel sled through a landscape of marshmallow fluff and candy trees, pulled by two glorious unicorns. The whisper swoon continues over three minutes, and even when it speeds up nothing breaks apart. The magic unicorns arrive and live forever in a tower of spun sugar.

Iain Mew: I love Qu Wanting’s voice, which has an effortless quality to it even as she conveys a lot of feeling (which works in English too, so it’s not a language difference thing). I also love the sound of the piano and of the shimmers of guitar that ripple around her, and the way that everything builds in power whilst still sounding like a soft hug of a song. Each time I listen it keeps getting lovelier.

Brad Shoup: Finally, I’ve realized: I don’t like ballads. Even ones that sound like a more relaxed Colbie Caillat.

Patrick St. Michel: The first minute of this song is lovely — Wanting sings about lost love over drowsy guitars, and it is a great match for her lyrics about saving memories in art. Then “You Exist In My Song” swings into more typical ballad form and it isn’t quite as nice.

Alfred Soto: It gets, as Neil Young would say, innaresting when those multitracked harmonies buttress the gossamer-thin melody. But, yes, it barely exists, even in song.

Katherine St Asaph: And ballads exist in my memories of middle-school auditoria. This is more “second-act interlude of the talent show” than “last slow dance,” but everything more or less works. Pro: the harmonies in verse two breeze in like breaths; the last few seconds’ vocal crack and neat piano conclusion are crafted to foolproof. Con: the bridge doesn’t soar but sputter; not much soars, in fact. Maybe this could be the second slow dance.

Jonathan Bogart: I keep wanting it to turn it into “Your Song,” and that’s (oddly enough) high praise: while it might or might not be true that anyone can write a gloopy ballad, it’s a lot harder to nail Taupin’s specific attitude of self-absorbed generosity. That this even comes close is a minor triumph.

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