Claire’s early music is something so visceral, so completely mindblowing— listening to it is an exorcism of sorts. She takes out you innards with her voice; she banishes the demons. You feel that your foil, this imperfect body, is utterly arbitrary. You can leave it, right here and right now; other worlds await you. You want to see them, you want to see them now.
I don’t know what it is, WHY it is; I don’t know why even the thought of Fifteen Minutes To sends shivers down my spine, why it never, ever, fails to make me cry as if I am crying for the first and the last time. I don’t know. And I suspect Claire didn’t know any of it either. She was a conduit for the mystery, sitting in her dark room in Montreal at fifteen minutes to midnight (or was it 4.45 am?), receiving celestial harmonies, discovering the chord progressions of the otherworld, letting the melancholy, the utter madness of being in the world take auditory form... She sat back. Fifteen Minutes To was complete.
She forgot about it for several years. Other things were happening, big and glorious things. And then something reminded her: a voice whispering in the darkness. The voice whispered in her ear that it would not go away until the song was no longer a secret.
And so, she shared it with the world.