I spent years visiting the city before I actually moved there at 20, and even with an address to speak of, I still ended each day with the consequential feeling that the city didn’t want me. There were exactly three things that kept me coming back. A boy. A man. And a book.

I sensed the pain of ten lifetimes in his dilatory reach. It seemed to be ages before his bone-bare fingers found their simple target. I remember thinking that he would be so much happier if he were dead. Surely, it doesn’t end this way, does it? Surely, there must be so much more… Three days later, the County Coroner came for his body. That is what this haunting, Portuguese orchestration of notes that the world calls Fado feels like. It’s not the type of music whose Sound you describe for another. To describe Fado is to capture a feeling.