Zoë Keating – Snowmelt


I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. Fuck cancer. Fuck cancer right in its fucking stupid face. If you’ve followed along with this blog, you’ll know I recently lost a friend and family member to this cunt of a disease.

“That sucks,” you might be scared to say but think anyway, “what does this have to do with Zoë?” Just hold on a fucking second, will ya? I’ll get to it.

Zoë started her musical career as a second chair cellist in a rock band called Rasputina (ya, a second cellist chair in a rock band can be a thing). She has worked with Amanda Palmer on her album Who Killed Amanda Palmer, done a fuckton of film soundtracks, and got some fame for releasing her shit all indie-style and, somehow, she still reached number fucking one on iTunes for classical music. That’s badass shit. Zoë likes to loop her shit on stage as she plays it. Cool right? This has given her the title of “one-woman orchestra”. This is her fourth release under her name. A first in eight years. The reason for the gap in time is because of a stupid fucking cunt of a fucking disease. I’m not going to get into Zoë’s story of loss cause I’m not a fucking asshole. This may surprise some of you. If you want to hear her story, you can listen to it here in her own words from a talk she recently did on TEDMED. 

This album is unbelievably beautiful. Sure, the tone is spot fucking on. Of course, that bass goes deeper than a rip in a black hole’s back pocket. And ya, the recording is boss as all fuck. But, more than all of this, hidden beneath all the words I could ever conjure regarding albums or recordings, this album gives us what we all desire from music: pure unadulterated honesty. If you didn’t know anything of Zoë’s story, you would understand how she feels by the end of these four songs. This album is a window into her world. The title Snowmelt even gives a clue about the scenery. Zoë, a born Canadian, probably knows a thing or two about long winters and snow. I’ve heard it said that there’s this odd moment in the middle of a long winter where you can convince yourself that it will never end. You know it will, yet still, something in you believes it. Then, one day, as the snow begins to melt, you stare out into what was once a void of white and notice patches of grass coming up. “Motherfucker,” you think to yourself, “seasons do change.” For Zoë, it’s been a long fucking winter and she’s finally watching the snow melt. Well, fucking aye, Zoë. Fucking aye. 


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