Marissa Nadler

Walking up High St on my way to the Northcote Social Club, I was commented upon by two generations of men. The first were late-middle-aged tradey looking types whose path I crossed while they were getting into their car. It was odd, but one of them acknowledged my presence with the statement, "The power of the pussy." Which I found mystifying. Was I supposed to respond by raising my fist? The second incident happened a few hundred metres further up the road. A group of young rev-heads waved that I should scurry across the road before they turned into it, and as their car passed behind me, out of the window came, "Girl, you fine." I'm sorry young man but you are quite clearly incorrect. Freak. And all I could think was, "What the hell is going on? I mean, I am wearing A CARDIGAN."

Anyway, I walked on and joined the collection of gentle people at the NSC. Marissa Nadler's appearance had touches of goth to it that I wasn't expecting in a New York folk artist. She said the crowd were much nicer than the people who usually yelled things at her in dive bars. She was charmingly unassuming and soft-spoken about the fact that all her songs are about rape, murder, death and heartbreak. Her singing was lovely, and Sylvia was particularly good.