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	DECIBEL MAGAZINE, MAY 2007 KNITTING FACTORY: FEBRUARY 14, 2007 by Jeanne Fury As the name implies, Diamanda Galás' VALENTINE'S DAY MASSACRE performances are not for horny lovebirds. The brilliant high priestess of death jazz and blackened blues represents with that three-and-a-half octave voice for hardened souls who recoil from Hallmark's chocolate-covered turds in heart-shaped boxes. And if you do go home and fuck after one of these solo shows, you've got got a disturbing kink going on. More power to you. Faux chandeliers emanated violet as a heavy waft of pot overcame the air right before Galás emerged. Looking like a glam-rock toreador in pants accented with gold-glitter Greek letters, her long black hair draped down her back, Galás took a seat behind her grand piano. The crowd braced itself as if it were buckling into a rollercoaster, helplessly trying to anticipate every jagged turn and stomach-churning ascension before plunging to the earth in a shower of barely suppressed hershey spirts. But Galás is never predictable nor acclimatable. Best clench your cheeks when she's in the house. The piano goes from sounding like it was mauled by bear paws to emitting creepy music- box tinkles in a set including Ralph Stanley's "o Death" and Edith Piaf's "Autumn Leaves," among other uplifting numbers. Throughout, Galás was dynamic, emitting craggy shrieks and decaying moans. Occasionally, she's even enlightened us: "This is jazz, not goth. OK, bitch?" Gotcha. And when someone foolishly shouted a request, Galás snapped, "Do you see a tip jar up here, girlfriend?" Sigh. Love is all around.

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st. valentines day massacre 2007 review

DECIBEL MAGAZINE, MAY 2007

KNITTING FACTORY: FEBRUARY 14, 2007

by Jeanne Fury

As the name implies, Diamanda Galás' VALENTINE'S DAY MASSACRE performances are not for horny lovebirds. The brilliant high priestess of death jazz and blackened blues represents with that three-and-a-half octave voice for hardened souls who recoil from Hallmark's chocolate-covered turds in heart-shaped boxes. And if you do go home and fuck after one of these solo shows, you've got got a disturbing kink going on. More power to you.

Faux chandeliers emanated violet as a heavy waft of pot overcame the air right before Galás emerged. Looking like a glam-rock toreador in pants accented with gold-glitter Greek letters, her long black hair draped down her back, Galás took a seat behind her grand piano. The crowd braced itself as if it were buckling into a rollercoaster, helplessly trying to anticipate every jagged turn and stomach-churning ascension before plunging to the earth in a shower of barely suppressed hershey spirts. But Galás is never predictable nor acclimatable. Best clench your cheeks when she's in the house.

The piano goes from sounding like it was mauled by bear paws to emitting creepy music- box tinkles in a set including Ralph Stanley's "o Death" and Edith Piaf's "Autumn Leaves," among other uplifting numbers. Throughout, Galás was dynamic, emitting craggy shrieks and decaying moans. Occasionally, she's even enlightened us: "This is jazz, not goth. OK, bitch?" Gotcha. And when someone foolishly shouted a request, Galás snapped, "Do you see a tip jar up here, girlfriend?" Sigh. Love is all around.