Does Anything Make Sense Anymore?
I have obsession s. Usually they manifest around music. Back in 2001, when mp3s seemed to be falling out of the New York sky like ash from the Trade Center, I must have stumbled upon 9 or 10 versions of Gloomy Sunday , a song I had never heard before. Also known as the "Hungarian Suicide Song," the word gloomy is a bit of an understatement when considering the lyrics, which are performed from the point of view of a bereft woman singing of her dead lover and her plans to join that person. Bjork's version is as brash as she. Sinead O'Connor also has a lovely version, with a klezmery sounding clarinet intro, the song then moves through until it reaches an almost late-1950s hip jazz flavor (think Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennet, Mel Torme). Given Sinead already sang a song about being stretched on her dead lover's grave, it is fitting she recorded Gloomy Sunday. Billie Holiday's version can't be beat, in case you wondered. But you can get creeped out se...