Emma Ruth Rundle occupies this very particular musical space that no one else manages to hold for me. It’s surprising for me to admit this but I think I need her more than some of my favourite iconic ladies of song that I’ve held dear since I was young. Her music feels achingly feminine to me, without the sharp and teasing serpentine tongue of Tori Amos and perceptive without the brutal merciless wisdom of PJ Harvey. Her head is half above the haunting, dark, watery doom of some of her Sargent House sisters. She’s always eyeing the shore. She’s a little more sensual, a little more ripe, somehow. She’s my perfect confidant, the one who looks you straight in the eyes and feels the undercurrent, pulsing and threatening to overturn everything in sight. She sounds of the earthly rumblings of a small but true revolution.
A rich belief that no one sees you
Your ribbon cut from all the fates and
Some hound of hell looking for handouts
The breath between things no one says
She’s back and she’s different now. Show me where you’ve been, my friend. I’m listening.
Author of a poor design
No one to steady your hand