Dear Kate Bush,
Your shrill vibrato. Your off-the-wall lyrics. Your heavy-handed recordings, not shrinking from the synthesizers or the baby-sweet voice, rife with shrieking seagulls and fatherly whispers, all seemingly laid down in some moldy Scottish castle where the rafters reverberate with the sad moanings of 500-year-old ghosts. And oh Kate, the videos. Your willowy frame swathed in a clinging gown (with matching tights and a flower in your long, long hair), your wacky interpretive dance moves and your big, haunted eyes.
I love you.
I love you for embracing the 12-year-old girl in you and running with it, for playing on your tinkery old toy piano, for writing about your dad, dying back garden animals and your favorite Victorian novel, and for taking those expressive movement classes cause it just felt so good.
Kate, you took the myth of female hysteria and threw it back in our faces, made it into something bizarre, singable and great. When they said women’s lives couldn’t be the stuff of art, you weren’t afraid to look or sound like a girl or write a song like an entry in your diary. When women had been pigeonholed by centuries of Freuds and Gerard de Nervals, ceaselessly represented as wishy-washy, repressed and addicted to love, you gave us back the eternal wounded teenage girl, the one with a radio, a burning desire to dress up in complicated costumes and a direct line to the poetic visions of the girl saints. And you made her fierce and steadfast, clad in a skimpy leotard but victim of no man’s objectification. You may be a kook, Kate, but I wouldn’t fuck with you. You’d claw my eyes out with those long red nails. And then you’d dance off into the woods like some misplaced and self-satisfied banshee, hands framing your face in a perfectly cultivated gesture.