Sinead O’Connor-Gloomy Sunday
The whole thing is absurd, a drama queens lament, an over the top gothic grief session for the overly dramatic, it has to be done with a certain starkness, because if it doesn’t it is camp melancholy.
This is where O’Connor works so wonderful. She has turned into a dirge, a song to sing at wakes, to kean at graves. The poetry is here, and her voice has the somberness to keep everything in check, even if the arrangement of piano and string is a bit too voluptuous.
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