On Thursday, January 17, at 4:30 p.m., Albuquerque
and the wider world lost one of its fiercest spirits and one of its gentlest in one fell swoop when singer/songwriter Jennifer Robin flew away from us into the Great Unknown.
The first time I saw her perform—at Annapurna, on Silver and Yale—I was taken by the warm embrace of her voice, by the vulnerability twined around strength. I was preparing to write a piece about her, and between sets, we talked—as if we had know each other for donkey’s years. She had by then been wrestling with cancer for 11 years. She spoke candidly and without drama about facing her mortality every day. About the pain. About the deals she cut with the cancer when her meds interfered with her ability to play guitar, ceding a little bit of time for a little bit of art. About her love of color. About returning to New Mexico in 2009 to “get closer to the sky” and to her sister. About
wanting to get her Beatles album finished (and boy, did she ever).
Now, the sky has got her, and I already miss her laughter, but I have her jazzy folky music and the edification of having known her grace and grit. Continue reading →