I’m going to tell you a secret.
If tortoiseshell cats could sing, they would all be sopranos.
OK, tortoiseshell cats can sing, and certain tortoiseshell cats named Virginia are beltier, bawdier altos than eighty Ethel Mermans.
But my point still holds, at least in Suite B.
This month, for a limited engagement, Suite B is hosting an intimate acoustic performance by one tender-hearted tortie: Joni.
We can’t help but sigh her name, so smitten are we. Jooooni. The mere sight of her pointy, perfect face is enough to swoon the song. We could take a case of her, and we would still be on our feet.
But being besotted with Joni’s beauty is only the beginning. It’s Joni’s soul that soars to your essence like a favorite song. Spend 4-6 seconds in her presence, and she shall roll for you, baring her bronze-and-black belly, widening those wondrous eyes and letting her bleeding heart burn all around you.
And at that point, your big yellow taxi can find another fare; you’re here to stay.
We can’t quite catch the rhythm of Joni’s last record. Somehow she ended up at a shelter, limping. Somehow even squiffier, she stayed there a long time, unsung and unwanted by adopters. We don’t get it. Such lyrics are, frankly, unlistenable.
So we’ll just tune to a folkier, fonder station: Joni’s here now. Her warm, whispery soprano is welcoming every visitor to Suite B.
And we have a feeling there won’t be many more verses before she’s homeward bound.
Like the best folk singers, Joni has seen both sides of life. She knows the bleak and the blue, the cold and the concrete.
But she’s still idealistic enough to believe that her music can matter and melt the cold. She knows who she is. She knows hope and belly rubs win. She knows where she stands. She’s still ready to court life with all her considerable charms.
And we stand in sparking, song-struck awe.