Shortly after moving into the neighbourhood, I was walking along Elgin Street and about to turn onto my McLeod Street when I was stopped dead in my tracks. Streaming out of the street-level apartment on my right hand side was a female voice killing Prince’s When Doves Cry. Not a little, and definitely not kind of or sort of, but rather completely and entirely she had Prince by the (I imagine) teenie tiny little ones and making him sound like a child in comparison.

Between her voice and the funk they laid down, I was left with no choice but to stand swaying in the street with my mouth hung open in admiration and awe. Basically, how I always stand when alone on the street.

For those of you who have lived here for some time, it will come as no surprise that I am a bona fide creep. Specific to this point, you will not be surprised to learn that I stood on my tip toes trying to look into the window of said apartment, hoping to get a glimpse of the divine woman delivering a better version of this song than Prince might ever hope to do in his high heeled booties. So creepy, in fact, that I pulled out my blackberry and tried to take a photo through the apartment window so that I might see who was singing. Not just once, but twice – once without flash and once with. All I saw was blurred mesh. (What had I hoped to do with the photo if it showed the female? I didn’t get that far, because I’m not the smartest person in the world.)

Anyway. After the song was over, I clapped. Staring up at the window, I clapped and smiled and promised myself that I would write a note of thanks and tape it to their window and surely they will be my friends and she will sing me to sleep. I am not exaggerating when I write that their version of When Doves Cry was really just that exquisite and then some.

Sadly, while I may be a creep on the regular, I am equally a knob-head and so never got around to writing that letter of thanks. Instead, I continue to feel a sense of shame and guilt every time I walk by the apartment because I have not thanked the woman and the band for that beautiful experience. Along with the shame and guilt, I always walk past the apartment with a sense of hope that her voice might find me a second time. But it has not.

As the only thing currently sleeping in my bed is Melodrama, I last week walked past the apartment and turned to look forlornly up at their window. While mumbling “Rapunzel, Rapunzel…” my eye caught on a shiny poster for a band called The Red Rails in precisely the same spot I had planned to tape my letter of thanks. Pukey with excitement because maybe it was her!

Rushing home, I took the stairs two at a time and chucked myself at my laptop when in the apartment to get on The Red Rails site and also immediately look for them on Facebook so that I might message them and ask if they were her and why wasn’t she in their photos they all have a penis and I’m pretty sure she was a girl who was singing and maybe she’d like to sing me a lullaby? Would she like to be my friend? (Insert sinister smiling emoticon here.)

I received a response immediately, thanks God only after I refreshed my screen about 700 times. Steve (drummer of The Red Rails) was generous enough to direct me to the musical genius that are The Hornettes (who don’t all have a penis), a sampling of which is here for your grooving pleasure and which I defy you to listen to only once:

They are amazing, non?! Like, SO AMAZING!!!! And they are local, which makes me love them that much harder.

I messaged them my creepy story (but didn’t tell them I tried to take a photo, lest they block me on Facebook), and I have both their Facebook page and their twitter account bookmarked so that I might attend their next gig when I am in town. I also promised Steve that I would yell a hello into the apartment next I walked and by which I really actually mean ‘stalked’ by.

Bookmark them and give them a twirl. Also, spread the word please and thank you.