May 12, 2002; Millington, Tennessee

Right now Alanis Morissette is blaring out of my Dell Inspiron 2500 laptop, and my own wonder and respect for her music is blaring. She is an ever-amazing artist to me. I can still remember borrowing Alanis’ first CD, Jagged Little Pill, from Ensign Ringhof in Panama, and being amazed at her driving rhythms, which seem to come from a concentrated notion of who she is, but not a solid understanding of the same. And it’s almost as if the drive is in the music — the drive to understand, to articulate, to keep driving, because she’s on to something, and wants to get there, and playing harder and faster will accelerate the comprehension, and satisfaction, and peace — peace with herself, with life, with the non-comprehended. I remember having bought her second CD when I lived in Venezuela, and being knocked over by how good the first song was — a real feat, since she was compelled to put everything down for a while and head to India on a whim, as the pressure to follow up with an even better album than her debut compressed her creativity. I’ve seen her interviewed on TV once or twice, and she seems totally comfortable with her music, and the drive, even though the drive doesn’t really seem to be moving her any closer to the answers to the misunderstood. It’s as if she understands that the journey itself is the comprehension, but she’s not really satisfied with that reality, and wonders whether the answers still lie beyond, despite what Eastern or mystic philosphy may be telling her. But the music, her music, continues to live up to its name, its etymology – the “language of the muses,” the muses which impel her, and overwhelm me, because I can’t believe how much I love her music. This 3rd album, under rug swept, which I’m listening to for the very first time right now, is astounding. I am in love with it upon first listen, and I think it will impel for many listens, and probably years, to come. Understanding that which compels, however, could be an even longer journey.