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The quote invoked probably the most often when on the subject of Joni Mitchell and her 1971 masterpiece Blue is the one where she said that when she wrote it she was so defenseless she felt not much stronger than the thin cellophane wrapping on a box of cigarettes. I’m reminded of this excessively repeated line sometimes when I listen to SZA, not because I think of her and Mitchell as kindred spirits (though I do) or because it too describes the state SZA tends to be in when she writes her music. (Since she can be relied on to take a lot longer than imperial-run Mitchell to complete an album, an LP’s worth of emotional introspection from SZA runs a wider gamut.) It has more to do with how much it can feel when a certain song of hers really hits like the separation between her and the listener is about as thin as that delicate packaging. Few artists of her generation with her same commercial chokehold are as good at sparking such intimate I’m-here-for-you empathy as well the feeling that she is elaborating on better than just about anybody the frustrations of modern love and the attendantly fluctuating feelings of hopeless I’m-a-loser spiraling or I’m-too-good-for-this bad b*tchery when something doesn’t work out. She’s not a pop star who towers over you. It’s more like she’s sitting across from or next to you, and you appreciate, maybe even feel consoled by, the sort of should-she-be-telling-me-this oversharing her mom, per the New York Times, worries she indulges too much but without which we couldn’t imagine living once we’ve gotten an earful.

Save for a couple handful-of-second clips I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at on YouTube, I went into SZA’s show at the Climate Pledge Arena on Thursday — her fourth-to-last on a tour supporting her quasi-surprise-dropped, universally acclaimed, charts-hogging first new album in five years, SOS — not really knowing what to expect. I was better acquainted with a sense of dread in the lead-up. I can chalk that up to worrying about how well the body of work of a confession-prone artist can translate when their songs of close-quarters intimacy are forced to contend with the type of large stage that can persuasively expand the domain of some performers and dwarf others. 

Read the rest of the review on 425.