Ode to Diana Krall

This is you.

Dear Diana Krall,

I’m not one to write fan letters. Even in my deepest obsession with Donnie Wahlberg of New Kids On The Block fame, I never wrote a letter. When presented with the opportunity, I didn’t even take a picture with my absolute top idol Gloria Estefan. And, if ever I would find myself in the same room with Angelina Jolie, I wouldn’t be able to lift my eyes away from my shoes.

But, yet, here I am, pouring my jazzy little heart out in honor of your immeasurable talent, butter-like voice and outrageous sensuality.

As I’m sure you get complimented by your entourage of agents, stylists, managers and extremely unattractive husband (who I’m sure has a wonderful personality and some sort of talent of his own) on your physical and musical attributes, I will not bore you by repeating the same-old, tired accolades. Instead, I’ll provide you with a unique list of why I think you are an audio orgasm. No. Make that a multiple audio orgasm. Especially if you’re on shuffle.

The first time I heard your voice, Ms. Krall, was in your version of Devil May Care. Sure, it’s catchy. Sure, it’s rhythmically fast paced and pleasant. But then, you drew me in, like if you were going to tell me a secret. And you gave me a glimpse of a little breathiness and I was like, “What?” and you were like, “You know it,” and I was like, “I’m sorry, are you talking to me right now?” and you were like, “Yeah, who else is in the room with us?”

To be honest, I was scared. I didn’t think I was ready to experience another song – let alone an entire album. Still, to this day, I can’t sit through an entire album. Though, laying through it is not a problem.

I couldn’t believe how your songs described me to a tee. It was as if we had shared a past life – only in this life, as I could’ve been different in a past life. I could’ve even been a man or a goat. I mean, you read Many Lives, Many Masters, right? You know what I’m saying. But, still, even if I was a farm animal and you were the gentle farmer wearing nothing but really tight overalls, how would you know that I have Popsicle Toes? How would you know my very specific Look of Love. How could you have tasted my Frim Fram Sauce? Well, maybe it was a terrible winter and you had to eat me, which would then make sense, but I find it unlikely (If this indeed happened, I totally forgive you).

I have never seen you in concert – well, live. I see you all the time on your One Night in Paris DVD. But live. Never. I suppose it’s because I am saving myself for a private concert. Just you, me, your piano and maybe a three-piece band (blindfolded band, of course).

I would lay across the top of your baby grand, with a few pillows for support, maybe a nice fleece blanket too. I’m going to need some coasters for my Bailey’s on the rocks. Crap. Which means we’re going to need a waiter. I suppose he can’t be blindfolded. He may trip over the step stool I would need to use to get off and on the piano. But he can be a performance artist, like the kind that pretends to be a statue. Would that work for you? It certainly works for me.

Truly, I am so glad I saved my crazy-fan-letter writing for you and didn’t waste it away on some B-grade musical talent that didn’t love me back as much as you do.

Dear Ms. Krall, you’re welcome.



You’re on the “allow” list.

Published by Mari

I was born with a widow's peak and a thick accent. I majored in English as a second language. I work (marianeladearmas.com) and travel (alittlecubangoesalongway.com) and sometimes do both.

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