Page 38

I do not know what is happening, but I also know that this is a direct order. So I do just that. My coat is whisked away by her moody assistant as I sit myself down and try to calm my twitching heart. Cool. This is just an inexplicable private concert in front of one of the most elusive talents in the world. Maybe tomorrow I’ll do brunch with Sade, since God is just doing anything. I don’t have time to wonder if this is an extremely vivid dream, because as soon as my butt makes contact with the cushion of the seats Taré’s fingers start dancing on the strings of her guitar, humming into the mic, capturing my attention. My bare legs prick up with goosebumps.

Her eyes wise and alive with emotion, Taré sings my heart out and makes it her dominion. In the flesh, she’s smaller, slighter, like all that’s tethering her to this earth is the heft of her voice; it’s husky, multi-tonal, an instrument in and of itself. Soon I forget the surreality of this situation, and the only thing that feels strange is how familiar her energy is despite never having met her, despite this oeuvre being new. Her voice has soundtracked so many moments of my life that this soothes like a hug from an old friend.

Now, her voice and her guitar conjure memory from melody and mood. I see Malakai and I listening to her music in his tiny uni room, me wanting to slip under his skin, him already in mine– so deep in mine, me wanting to stay there, in that moment, if it was the last thing I ever did. There’s something about how a good love song can swing low into your gut and hit at a spot between pleasure and pain and yearning and bliss, this feeling that this,thisis what music was created for– this transcendence that somehow makes you leave your body and become more aware of it at the same time. Something like a first kiss with the right one. That first kiss that tells you everything outside of it is wrong because nothing could be as good as this.

Good songs like this melt over your skin and make your heart beat faster and you come into the understanding that feelings can be real despite being intangible. TikToks from therapists barrelling through their Hippocratic oaths to tell us about their clients repeat mantras of Feelings. Aren’t. Facts. Sometimes true. Sometimes insecurities dictate our feelings– we project thoughts onto other people and let them trap us– but a good song stirs emotion with knowledge. What you feel is heightened, affirmed by melody, by lyrics that paint you true. It makes feelings come alive, make themselves known. They come clear like cool water down your throat on a summer’s day. What you feel is real.

And sitting here, in this basement, I’m clear on one thing: Bakari has never made me feel like this song. Fact. The sultry blues of these songs make me think of hot kisses that make your bones crumble to brown sugar that melts in a mouth that makes you moan, makes me think of believing in a love that could weather whatever, because it is the weather, it is everything.I told myself that a love like that could only be temporary for me because it had to be. It has to be. Because, yes, a love like that sets your heart on fire, makes you feel understood, known, but that’s the danger. When you give your whole self, your whole self is at risk, but when you enter a love that holds the increments you give yourself permission to give it’s safer– yet at what cost? I’d felt safe– content– with Bakari, but did I ever feel happy? And what’s the value of ‘safer’ anyway, if nothing precious is at stake? The last song ends, my own applause cleaving my questions open as Taré stands up, beams and bows to the audience of one as her drummer leaves silently.

‘Thank you, beloved,’ her voice coos, deep and smooth. ‘I really appreciate you being here. You know, I’ve been travelling around the world for such a long time, and I really wanted my first show back in London to be special. A conversation between me and the people who get me.’ I wonder who counts as ‘people’, considering it’s only me here. I frown with some confusion just as Taré’s hipster sprite passes me a cocktail that has seemingly been procured from thin air. I sip it, the best Tommy’s margarita I have ever tasted in my life. This is how I know I probably fell on the way here and this is some sort of concussion dream.

‘Damn.’ It slips out, with no acquiescence with my brain, sharp citrus tap-dancing on my tongue. ‘You know, it’s weird, this is my favourite cocktail—’

‘I know all, babes. I’m basically omnipresent.’ The aroma of peonies, success and a crystalline melisma flows into my immediate atmosphere and Taré Souza sits in front of me, after her assistant pulls up a purple velvet scalloped chair and places a murky green cocktail in her hand. Taré is even more dazzling up close. She has poreless skin decorated with a glittering burst of sunset hues framing eyes fanned with fluttering lash extensions. There’s a slight empyreal shimmer on her cheeks, and a congenial grin on her face. She looks like an Afrocentric pixie. It’s only when she gives my arm a light pinch that I reckon with the notion that this may be real life.

She squeals, ‘Kidding! I got my people to ask your agent. You OK, babe? You looked like you went somewhere while I was singing. It happens, but I’m always curious about where people go. I’m just a pilot. I know roughly where I’m taking you, but I don’t know where exactly you’re going to go in that destination, you know? I don’t know your inner world. Like, I’m a beach bum, but maybe you’re someone who likes to hike at 5 a.m.?’

‘Yeah. Definitely not.’ I laugh, and the action forces me to immediately ease up, relaxing. The bizarreness unlocks a freedom; how could Ipossiblymess this up? Besides, I’ve interviewed plenty of artists in my time. I can do this. So what if I’ve had sex to her voice?

I shift in my seat, leaning forward. ‘So, you ever went on a really bad date and you feel the need to escape your reality so you, like, go to a happy place in your brain? For survival? This experience was the opposite of that. I felt sopresent,and it opened me up. I wasn’t escaping inside my body I was like. . . discovering and rediscovering things that I knew and didn’t know at the same time. Memories. Questions I have. Emotions. It was. . . it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever been part of. Really. I mean I’ve been to amazing live shows and I’m still not entirely sure what’s going on here, but this was. . .isout of this world. Your new songs are beautiful. I still think this is some kind of fever dream, and I don’t know if, like, this is some kind of art-immersion experiment where everyone gets to be an individual audience, but. . . thank you. It felt sacred.’

Taré’s eyes glimmer, and she smiles. ‘Where did you go mentally? I mean when you were on a bad date and you felt like you had to escape?’

‘Oh!’ I shrug. ‘A two-week baecation with Skepta.’

Taré roars with laughter then takes a sip of her strange cocktail, batting a bejewelled hand. ‘A two-week baecation with Skepta is overrated.’

I snort with surprise at her candour and press my glossed lips together. I suspected she might be like this– fun and smart, a woman after my own heart– because of the way she used to run loops around thirsty, graceless press who tried to force her into her box or pit her against other artists. She’d swipe the mic from them and ask them whothey’refucking since we’re all being nosey here. Celebrities are wont to disappoint, their sheen smudging with proximity and their authenticity crumbling under pressure, but Taré seems fun for real, real for real.

‘You’re lying,’ I say boldly. ‘I don’t believe that.’

Taré pauses for a moment and crosses her legs and for a second I think I’ve crossed a line, played a little too close to overfamiliarity. Maybe Taré’s one of those stars who only enjoys banter on her terms, relatable as long as you play by her rules, but her face breaks into a bright smirk, eyes twinkling with mirth. Her cocktail, I’m noticing, smells really strong– whatisthat?

‘Yeah, girl, I’m lying. It was heavenly. That man could be a yogi the way he opened me up in ways I could never have imagined. Made me as flexible as Britney in 2000.’

My laugh wrestles free. ‘“Oops I Did It Again”?’

Taré squeals. ‘And again and again. I just wanted to tell someone that I had a two-week baecation with Skepta, honestly.’

I nod with grave understanding. ‘A constitutional right, actually. Written in the Sneaky Link bylaws. Loose lips sink ships, except when the ship involves a man that God created when she was feeling in a generous spirit. Had her iced coffee, got all her errands done on time and then decided to create a little something for the girls. A treat.’

Taré squawks with glee, a delightfully raspy sound, considering her angelic singing voice. It’s loud and filthy and completely charming. ‘Whew. Knew I would like you. I mean I listen to The Heartbeat all the time so I guessed I would, but you can’t assume people will be cool just because theyseemcool, you know? But you’re cool.’ She breezily echoes my own apprehension like it’s nothing, before sipping her snot-hued drink again.

Emboldened by curiosity, I say, ‘Thank you so much. Can I ask what you’re drinking in the spirit of me being cool?’

She smiles. ‘Oh, it’s an elevated matcha margarita. Antioxidants with a kick! Try some!’ She shoves it in my face, and I see no choice but to take a sip. I immediately want to gag. It’s powdery and bitter and a little gets stuck in my throat. Alcohol shouldn’t havebitsin it. It prolongs the consumption process and you don’t want time to really think too deeply about what you’re swallowing otherwise you wouldn’t really do it. A philosophy that could apply to a few things.

Eyes watering, I cough, swallow some spit and pass her back the glass. ‘Mmmm!’ An errant cough escapes and I sip my own drink to soothe my throat. ‘A kick!’

She looks pleased, and both her shoulders rise in delight. ‘Amazing. I’m partnering with this tequila company as their brand ambassador so I’m trying out new recipes for this little tie-in video series.’

My smile remains fixed on my face and I nod slowly at this terrible idea. ‘Oh. In that case, why don’t you go for something accessible? Matcha margarita may be a little. . . of an acquired taste and you may want something that hits instantly. Like your music! Something sweet, sultry, dark and indulgent like your voice. What’s your favourite fruit?’

Taré tilts her head at me with gentle interest. ‘Cherry.’

‘Perfect. Make a cherry margarita and call it the Taré Twist. Or La Souza Vita!’

A small grin begins to spread across Taré’s face as she nods, her eyes switching from something bright and open, to something sharper. ‘That’s so interesting,’ she says slowly. ‘You fucking hated that drink.’