I have watched countless videos of Caroline Rose singing live. She isn’t someone who mimics herself night after night. She has an almost intoxicating way of being present—an intuitive connection to the moment—and because of this, every performance is uniquely embodied. Sometimes she cries, sometimes she takes her clothes off, often she dances—and always she stares absorbedly into the beyond while singing, her gaze solidly present, grounded, and focused, yet somehow otherworldly. Some musicians I just listen to, but Rose is one to watch. She looks kind of possessed by the music, as if she were giving her whole self to it—or it to her. And her gift for reinventing herself and experimenting from album to album—moving between genres—underscores a pure love of singing, songwriting, and producing.

Reviewers tend to focus on how different Rose’s albums are, but I would say that what distinguishes her as an artist is her ability to straddle dualities, producing songs over the years that feel vast yet intimate, mournful yet danceable, fictional yet lived, naked yet dressed up, savage yet tender, silly yet serious, ironic yet disarmingly forthright—I could go on. And her songs are beautifully built, both formally and emotionally. In fact, this is her genius: how the sonic structures she creates mirror what they carry inside: living feelings. A certain generosity of spirit resonates throughout Caroline’s work. It is hard to explain what it means to perceive someone else’s spirit. But there is a feeling of recognition: a hello feeling; a yes feeling; a somehow ancient feeling; a moved, connected, and slightly bewitched feeling that is set in motion when I listen to her songs. And while it may be hard to articulate what exactly spirit is, it certainly stands out—easy to spot in these numb times. I spoke with Caroline twice by phone, for three hours total. We discussed God, self-love, nudity, grieving, heartbreak, invisible friends, and choosing art over business.