Friday night, August 1, Barry and I found ourselves at the Wunderkammer Company in Fort Wayne, Indiana, breathing in incense and music. The lights were low, the ceiling high, and the air hung full of reverence. We had come to hear Emma Swift.

But in a way, this story started years ago. Before Emma’s pandemic-era livestreams with her husband, Robyn Hitchcock, Barry first followed his music. Robyn, for the uninitiated, is a cult hero of British psychedelic and post-punk rock, known for fronting The Soft Boys in the late seventies and The Egyptians through the eighties and early nineties, before moving on to an impressive solo career. He is the kind of songwriter who makes other songwriters feel both inspired and slightly afraid.

Back in 2017, we went to see Robyn play a solo show in Indianapolis at the White Rabbit Cabaret. Setlist here. Barry introduced himself and Robyn finished Barry’s name. That is what social media does for you nowadays. The intimacy of art, met halfway by the strange recognition of the digital age.

Also, that night Robyn sang my favorite song of his: “My Wife and My Dead Wife.” Not to mention playing “Virginia Woolf.” That made my evening. 

It was Barry who introduced me to Emma Swift’s music, too. I remember hearing her voice waft out of his music room one afternoon. Dylan’s achingly good lyrics carried on a voice that stopped me with its iridescence, its earnestness. Arresting. Unforgettable. 

The album was Blonde on the Tracks, and I was hooked.

During lockdown, Emma and Robyn began livestreaming concerts from their Nashville home, and we “attended” those regularly, grateful for their music, their chemistry, their warmth. 

One landed on Barry’s birthday and Emma wished Barry a happy birthday when I snuck a note in the comments saying it was.

And now, years later, we were second row at Wunderkammer Gallery, close enough to see the earnest look on her face as she sang, not tempted to close her eyes as some singers might be, at least not often. 

The space itself was magic. Incense-thick, lit softly, with high open ceilings and a massive steel girder overhead like a spine. It felt like a place built for spellwork and sound. Word Raccoon, for one, approved.

The entryway ceiling was decked in crochet, as if a hippy van had gone upside down and stuck. 

The night’s set was a haunting mix of old and new. Songs from Blonde on the Tracks and previews from her upcoming album The Resurrection Game, due out September 12 on Tiny Ghost Records. We heard Dylan reimagined with clarity and ache, and we heard something altogether her own. Born from breakdown, from from resurrection.

Her covers of “I Contain Multitudes” as well as “Queen Jane Approximately” were outstanding. And her own “Catholic Girls are Easy” was haunting, lovely, and a little funny. It’s a given it’s irreverent, right? 

The song that moved me the most was her “No Happy Endings.” The line, “I’ve never done things by half measures” sounded like a certain WR over here. 

Emma’s new work is raw, radiant, and rooted in survival, something she talks about on her website when she mentions a seven-week breakdown which required hospitalization.

It could be said her work is salvific in multiple ways. (I know, the word is likely overused, but dammit, it fits here. Read on.) 

With this new album, she wanted to create something gorgeous from what she went through. 

She did.

Enchanting, absorbing…I don’t know what all to say except I am so happy to have heard her. 

She wore a classic long-sleeved black blouse with an orange polka dotted mini over black hose and heeled ankle boots. So cute.

She moves youthfully: hands at sides when not holding a mic, leans, her blonde hair draping itself beautifully over her arm. 

While her music was transporting, there was something incredibly honest and open about her performance that elevated it beyond even her voice. (And she has quite a voice!) 

Her guitarist, Rick Lollar, newly married and away from home, played with impeccable style and soul. I told him he was sharply dressed, because he was. (A crisp black button down, cuffed jeans, black leather shoes, I think.) 

His playing was top notch as well. 

Barry chatted with him while I wandered the gallery, incense curling through the air, admiring paintings that did not mind being weird and wonderful. 

Barry and Rick, Emma lost in the. light. Barry and Rick talked side by side for quite a while; this was right before we left.. There are better pictures but I don’t have them just now. Do note the ceiling, please!

Emma asked how my writing was going. I was happily stunned she had asked. When Barry said I have been writing poetry these days, I found myself saying simply, “We lost my mother.”

She placed her hand gently on my arm. “That’ll do it,” she said.

It was artist shorthand, what I said, and her response. The perfect exchange. Nothing wasted. All feeling.

Did I mention Emma sent me a photo privately of my first novel and her stuffed animal. I can’t remember the name of it now, but a lobster I think, during the pandemic? She bought my novel, y’all! AND let me know it.

She asked about my writing at HER show!

I was also blown away that she knew who we were without having to tell her Friday.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” she said.

Now that’s the way to be greeted, though so unexpected. Word Raccoon preened.

We were there for the ache and balm of live music, and that’s what we received. The sense that art, even now, even again, can stir the sludge in the soul. 

I’m so grateful for her presence so near our town. It was a night to remember. 

Word Raccoon insists on having the last word. She has been hunting for polka dotted everything online since Friday, when she watched Emma, absorbed the paintings behind her, and let the music rattle something loose in her. 

She has not written whatever that might be yet, but last night she was singing that song that causes her heart to squeeze.

And we all know that poetry and song lyrics are kissing cousins, don’t we?

Want to hear Emma’s music? Maybe even buy her latest? Do, chickadee, do!