There is something surreal about sitting at a faux-French cafe in the middle of a sweltering urban mess and hearing the lamentations of a slave set to bossa nova.
“Old pirates, yes, they rob I/Sold I to the merchant ships/Minutes after they took I/From the bottomless pit,” she sings almost lazily, as if being ripped from your homeland just means it’s one of those days.
Don’t worry about it, though. Just keep nursing that cafe au lait and we’ll get back to familiar territory eventually. “Waters of March” or something else nice and friendly.
In the meantime, won’t you help me sing this song of freedom? Just, you know, just to get it over with.