William Fitzsimmons

Mr. Fitzsimmons, as I stare at the blank Word document on my computer, I am determined to write about your songs. Not your Katy Perry cover and not your beard — as long and as impressive as the latter is. I bet folks write a lot about that beard and that cover. Never mind that your hushed, bearded indie-folk take on K.P. song robs it of any of that coy former-Christian-pop-star-goes-"shockingly"-lesbian veneer. I'm not going to discuss how your songs have been featured on Grey's Anatomy and other popular television programs, either. I'm not going to insinuate that everything you do seems tailor-crafted for inclusion on whatever film or commercial Zach Braff is currently cooking up. I'm just going to write about your songs, those lovely and unassuming tunes. I won't try to pass you off as a mass-market version of Sufjan Stevens or Iron & Wine, which is tempting, even though you never get quite as scary as they sometimes do. I won't, because despite my jaded cynicism, you sound altogether genuine, and your songs sound like they crawled out of some place deep inside your ribcage. I'm sure they resonate deeply with your fans. I'll sit here listening until I'm finished, William.


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