depravity and gravity have always got a grasp on me.

Since my last writing exploit, I’ve had the pleasure of seeing a stellar talent of epic proportions perform twice in my neighboring cities of New York and Philadelphia.  Along with my two fellow comrades (and former roommates), I set sail for the TLA in late November in order to see our latest musical obsession, the very lovely and talented Ingrid Michaelson.  We became turned on to Ingrid for a myriad of reasons; I listened to her hauntingly sing-songy debut album ad nauseum during my stint at a local bookstore, and my roommate became familiar with her when she unknowingly befriended Ingrid’s back-up talent’s brother.  The love grew deep and thick, so I scored tickets and scooped them up for a belated birthday night on the town.  The theme of the first night revolved around a ballroom bash, so we donned some fancy duds and enjoyed the sweeping sounds of David Ford (whose incredible, one-man looping tracks left us in awe), Newton Faulkner, and Ingrid herself.  Little did we know, our friend’s sister is the ominous talent on many of our favorite tracks, including the catastrophically beautiful song The Chain.  After the pitch-perfect show, Ingrid happily posed for some of our personal Polaroids, and David Ford chivalrously walked us to our car.

Last night hailed her second annual Holiday Hop, which was conveniently hosted in her home state of New York.  We reprised our roles and meandered to Town Hall to sit sandwiched between obscenely obnoxious chatterboxes and inebriated superfans. Regardless, the show was incredible, boasting cellists, a full choir, and a harmonizing Christmas quartet (Ingrid and company sporting red pinstripe shirts and faux mustaches).  Despite the nose bleed seats and 11:00 venue curfew, we had an excellent view and a packed night.  And the best part?  My old pal at the performing arts center I worked at for years just booked her for next year’s agenda.  It’s good to have pull.