This song flows like a fever dream. It opens with the gentle terror of something creeping in—“The tigers come at four / Shaped like the curtains and the floor”—and from that moment, the listener suspends between reality and reverie. These “tigers” aren’t predators in the jungle; they’re emotional presences, shapeshifting memories, and the ghostly forms pain can take as it weaves into domestic life.
Snow was a genre-defying artist in a business that rewards conformity from jazz for pop radio to blues for folk audiences and was too eclectic to be boxed into any one format. She was a singer of staggering ability, with a voice that could vault from a hushed whisper to a full-bodied wail in the span of a phrase
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