By Dan Harkins
I fell for Norah Jonese long before I’d even seen her big brown eyes and hair. That honeyed sting of a voice sunk into me on the 2002 Blue Note debut Come Away With Me, as song after song had me asking, “Where are we going, Norah?” It wasn’t long before I felt like kissing somebody; luckily, my fiancé found herself under the same spell. But I didn’t tell her what thoughts lurked behind my enthusiasm. She plays piano, too?
It was no surprise, then, when Jones sold 10 million copies of the disc and took home a slew of Grammys. She was different in a familiar kind of way, and I was smitten. I could close my eyes and imagine her staring through some fog of jazz club smoke somewhere along a dusty country road, refreshingly evoking old voices as disparate as Sarah Vaughn and kd lang, singing tunes that exhibited an intelligent and playful attraction to the best of what lounge music has to offer. Her follow-up, Feels Like Home, sold a million copies in a week. More Grammys followed. Critics appreciated the authenticity of her attempt to deliver good country songs without any of that pesky twang. I vowed: Someday she will know how firmly she holds my heart.
My chance came last month. She was coming again to Cleveland in support of album number three, Not Too Late, her first near-completely self-penned collection (her longtime boyfriend and bassist in her band, Lee Alexander, tweaked a lot of the lyrics, she admits). I would stalk her publicist via e-mail, pour through the surprisingly mature and playful Not Too Late, line up an easy interview, corner her with questions about the meaning of every lyric on every song in her increasingly eclectic discography, then find out what this Alexander character was all about. Surely he was cheating on her. Didn’t she know this? I read a quote of her’s in Entertainment Weekly: “My music is mellow and kind of sweet, but I’m kind of salty.” Just like me, Norah. Just like me! Free Times music editor Jeff Niesel jokingly referred to her as Snore-ah Jones, and I seriously considered a violent reply.
I found myself staring at the cover art for the album, the pouty lips, the ring finger without any diamonds, that title… Not Too Late. I imagined asking her, “For what, Norah?” I waited for her handlers to come through. During all this, I told my fiancé, a brown-eyed beauty in her own right, just that I was interviewing her. No big deal. After all these years together, she and I were finally becoming man and wife. How to reconcile this crush?
I kept quiet, patient. Two Fridays ago, one of Norah’s goons, Matt Hanks, e-mailed me at around 8 p.m., asking if the next afternoon at 2 p.m. would work. I’d left the office by then, and our e-mail server was down, so I didn’t get the message until Sunday night. I messaged Norah’s chief publicist, explaining how it was all Matt’s fault, the bastard. It was pretty much curt little messages after that: “We’re working on trying to get this set. Stay tuned.”
Didn’t they know Norah is one of the people listed under “Who I’d Like To Meet” on my Myspace page? Didn’t they know a loving, fulfilling relationship hung precariously in the balance? “Don’t worry: I’m a fan,” I messaged, thinking that maybe they were worried we were rearing our heads back for a snake-like strike. She’s probably in bed with him right now.
But reasonable soul-searching helped me find my way back. Here I sit, with her in my thoughts. But the sentiment is different now, my devotion finally divorced from mere juvenile obsession. I love her songs, the way she delivers them simply but with sass. I love the fact that there’s a carnivalesque number on her new album that sounds like Tom Waits is going to start singing any second. I love how she sometimes dons a platinum-blond wig and guitar and pounds through rock songs with a NYC band called El Madmo. And I love how she blows off lowly writers in the poorest city in America without even uttering a word. Her loss. My gain.
I don’t love her like that anymore, anyway. Never did, actually. I know this now. Those feelings are and always have been reserved for my new wife. I needed this to understand that completely. Not only does she return my messages and calls, but I think she genuinely enjoys my company from time to time. And she’s the one with the lips that kiss me with that same slow grace, whether it’s Norah or silence that fills the room. She, too, is mellow, kind of sweet but highly salty. She’s the one who feels like home.
Norah Jones, Matt Pond
7:30 p.m. Wednesday, May 9
State Theatre
1501 Euclid Ave.
216.241.6000
Tickets: $55-$60
