I sigh. Maybe I’ll feel better about it in a few more days.
Picking up the guitar, I take it with me downstairs and into the kitchen, where Jon is drinking a large glass of water. He is also dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Wow, you actually can drink water,” I joke.
“Yeah, apparently it’s good for you.” He shrugs with a lopsided grin.
“Conspiracy theories,” I tsk while preparing the coffee machine.
“Don’t tell anyone” – he leans back against the counter – “but I like to get up early sometimes, go for a surf with the fit and healthy people.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” I wink at him. I think I like sober Jon, too.
“Wanna finish that song?” he asks.
“Yes, definitely,” I say. I want it out of my system for good.
“Oh, Silver Waters sent something for you.” He points at the countertop. There’s an envelope lying next to a pot plant, which looks surprisingly healthy.
“Oh? Just for me?”
“Yep, it’s got your name on it.”
I pick it up and am surprised by how thin it feels. Almost like it’s empty. Turning it over, I don’t recognise the handwriting, and there’s no branding on the envelope.
I rip it open.
Inside is a photo. A Polaroid photo.
I pull it out, and my smile is immediate and uncontrollable.
It’s a headless torso dressed in a grey T-shirt that used to be mine. It has been cut open straight down the middle. Full breasts are partially visible, but the nipples are – devastatingly – covered by the material. In the centre of the photo is a hand. Cassie’s hand, her middle finger erect and pointed right at me. Her nail is round and painted a baby pink, the same colour her toenails were that night.
Laughter rumbles out of me.
“What is it?” Jon asks, stepping closer.
I clutch the photo to my chest. “Oh, nothing.”
He gives me a puzzled look, but I don’t entertain it. Instead, still smiling, I look back at the photo and hear her message loud and clear.
Fuck. You. Too.
RHYTHM & NEWS
Saturday, June 23, 1979
BATTLE OF THE BANGS: The Most Unlikely Duet of the Year?
Full Report by Ramona McKenzie
Just over a month ago, I sat down with the two biggest female rockstars in the world, Cassie Everard and Pia Lindberg. If you’re surprised that they were in the same room at the same time, you’ll be shocked to learn the reason why: Everard and Lindberg were recording a song together. Today, that record, ‘What I Want’, is released.
If you’ve not yet heard the song, be prepared for further surprise as the song is a departure for both Evergreene’s frontwoman and Femme Fatale’s lead singer. With the music written by last year’s hit machine, Theo Kalpiatis, this soaring ballad-like pop song lacks Evergreene’s folk influence, and it’s certainly far from the punk-rock anthems Femme Fatale is famous for. However, it is more than a simple crowd-pleasing pop song. There is a depth to the soaring melodies that somehow show off not only the sweetness of Everard’s voice but also the distinctive purr of Pia Lindberg, who has notably softened her delivery in the song.
Or perhaps it is the lyrics themselves that set ‘What I Want’ apart from not only the two rival bands’ former EPs but also Kalpiatis’s previous hits. The lyrics, which Everard and Lindberg spent a day together working on, tell a vivid, very personal story of two women who confront one another after discovering they are both involved with the same man. It will, therefore, be easy to draw parallels between ‘What I Want’ and Dolly Parton’s ‘Jolene’, but this unexpected duet stands out because it gives the other woman a voice as well. In fact, it’s not exactly clear who is the other woman inthe equation, and dare I say it, it doesn’t matter. As I watched both Lindberg and Everard record their verses back in April, I was so captivated by their performances that I found myself completely forgetting there was a man in the equation at all.
That said, it certainly became clear to me during my short interview with Lindberg and Everard that they still see each other as adversaries at best and rivals at worst, and this tension is almost tangible in the way they both sing this memorable ballad.
