It all started with an explosion at the heart factory and thus Von Strantz was born. Soon even the hearts of old men were crying in their long-forgotten graves. Light in the midst of darkness. Personal but universal. Intimate. Timeless. Defies genre yet sounds so familiar. That was what her bio said, and it was true. It was true even to me, as I sat in the dark corner of one of the probably thousands of rooms she’s played in by now, trying not to be seen, but finding myself, unsuspectingly, unwillingly, not only seen, but pinned to the wall under the light of a heart that was made out of music. The fact is that Von Strantz is a great musician and if you’re lucky enough to find yourself at one of her shows, you might cry, even if you’re an emotionally dead old man who literally never cries—actually, especially then—it’s happened more times than she can wrap her head (heart?) around. She’s been performing live for every reason you can think of for more than half of her life and she’s recorded more albums than she can remember, under her own name and others, and you should really just go see her play or buy one of her albums, hopefully on vinyl, because what, did you really think that she’s ever gonna pay her rent with all those .0000000000001 one-millionth of a cent streaming-cents? The heart. For real.
Way Down Here