LAS VEGAS REVIEW-JOURNAL
By Jason Bracelin
She sounds truly imperiled as her words spill out of her like blood from some fresh, deep wound.
“I feel like I’m gonna die,” Lydia Loveless sings, though that might not be the most accurate way to describe her actions: Singing is a conscious act, and this feels different, her words reflexive and involuntary, like the sound you make when you drop something heavy on your foot.
Here it comes again.
“I feel like I’m gonna d-i-e-e-e-e-e-e!” she repeats, holding on to the final word as if it was, in fact, her final word.
At that moment, you might not be able to feel Loveless’ pain, but you can feelher feeling it, palpably, jarringly, on heart-in-a-vise lament “To Love Somebody.”
It’s the same sensation you get when you drive by the scene of a bad accident: You shudder at the wreckage even if you weren’t involved in the collision because it brings you this close to real carnage.
You can’t help but think of your own mortality afterward.
This is what Loveless does: She brings you within inches of the desperation, the ecstasy, the longing and the loneliness that cling to the contours of her tunes like a tight dress.
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