I can't possibly make any career-spanning observations or reaffirming definitions about the impact of Trish Keenan that haven't already been posted a thousand times over the past 24 hours. All I can do is offer my personal version of a voice, a voice, that completely changed how I perceive art. A friend of mine spun Broadcast's Tender Buttons in the dead of winter, and when the trickling opening glitches of that record gave way to some sort of ancient Gregorian hymn within 30 seconds, my brain sort of curdled. Music was no longer something to be listened to, but a tangible object to show-and-tell. Reaching back into their previous two records and associated EPs was like deciphering glyphs left behind by galaxy-trotting scientists from the Paleolithic Age. The voice dug up some incredibly rooted superstitions inside me, and sang about them as if they were sunflowers. Or black hyacinths. That, I think, is the core of my appreciation for Trish Keenan: she was the soothsayer of the unspoken, and to lose her voice too soon has left me with a long list of unanswered questions.
For what it's worth, watching Trish and her partner James Cargill perform their song "Black Cat" at the Black Cat in DC in 2009 was one of the most spiritually satisfying events in my life, a truly once in a lifetime occurrence that puts a smile on my face.
Broadcast :: Valerie