/lit/ - Literature

I just had to share this shit. It's the actual liner notes for a Nancy Sinatra LP, from 1966. The one with "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'" on it:

'How should I sing this?'

'Like a 16-year-old girl who's been dating a 40-year-old man, but it's all over now.'
She looks good, dresses good, lives good, eats, drinks, loves, breathes, dances, sings, cries good. Five-foot-three and tiger eyes. A mouth made for lollipops or kisses, stingers or melting smiles. Ninety-five pounds of affection. She's been there already. Barely in her twenties, she looks younger. That look, like Lolita Humbert, like Daisy Clover. The power to exalt, or to destroy, wanting only the former, but unafraid to invoke the latter if the time comes. The eyes that see through, know more, look longer. Unafraid to pull on the boots again, toss off a burnt out thing with a casual 'So long, babe,' and get.

A young, fragile, living thing, on its own in a wondrous-wicked-woundup-wasted-wild-worried-wisedup-warmbodied world. On her own. Earning her daily crepes and Cokes by singing the facts of love. Her voice tells as much as her songs. No faked up grandeur, her voice is like it is: a little tired, little put down, a lot loving. No one is born sophisticated. It's a place you have to crawl to, crawling out of hayseed country, over miles of unsanded pavement, past Trouble, past corners and forks with no auto club signs to point you, till you get there and you wake up wiser.

She's arrived. She sings you about the long crawl. And makes you have to listen.