Well now. Here’s a feeling bottled, or rather, pressed onto a piano key. “Alone.” Caitty, out of Margaret River – which, in my head, conjures images of dramatic cliffs and maybe someone losing their favourite hat to the wind, oddly fitting – gives us a stark landscape of sudden departure.
The piano isn’t just accompaniment; it feels like the architecture of the emptiness. Chord by chord, it builds the room the singer finds herself abruptly locked inside. And Caitty’s voice? Clear, capable, carrying the kind of bewildered pain that feels achingly familiar, even if your own version involved less dramatic scenery and perhaps a poorly timed text message. It’s pop, yes, but the sort that leaves a subtle bruise.
The narrative is brutal in its simplicity: you were everything, now you’re nothing, and the ‘why’ hangs in the air like cheap perfume. It nails that disorienting shock, the rug-pull moment when love pivots to abandonment without so much as a creak in the floorboards. There’s a line about shattered promises that momentarily made me think of… shattered stained glass? Not religious, just the sudden, sharp, colourful fragmentation of something whole. Strange thought, that. Fleeting.
It digs into the confusion, the frantic search for clues in the rubble, the bitterness watching the other person seemingly sail away unscathed. Caitty doesn’t just sing about heartbreak; she maps the immediate, bewildering aftermath, that feeling of insignificance blooming in the chest. It’s less a wallow, more a forensic examination of the moment trust evaporates.
Is a song like this therapy for the artist, or a shared mirror for the listener? Maybe both. It certainly resonates with the stark clarity of a slammed door. Leaves you wondering about the acoustics of loneliness, doesn’t it?
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