She sings, oh Lord, with a rowdy spin of styles country, rhythm and blues, rock, reggae, torchy ballad fused by a rare and rambling voice that calls up visions of loss, then jiggles the glands of possibility. The gutty voice drives, lilts, licks slyly at decency, riffs off Ella, transmogrifies Dolly Parton, all the while wailing with the guitars, strong and solid as God's garage floor. A man listens and thinks "Oh my, yes," and a woman thinks, perhaps, "Ah, well . . ."
Linda is 30 now. Her skin is...
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