She kills

I like her best when she's dormant, still and unused. I watch how her face moves, in between questions, when her wounds bleed with a graceless insecurity. She looks down and plays with her fingers, hair and bites her bottom lip with intensity that drowns out any foregone sense of tone. She's magnetic.





On stage, she doesn't need an adoptive persona to conceal artistic insecurities. Instead, she flourishes in the pigpen filth, bred in her own, noisy, sweat-stained den of mesmerised fans. She smoulders with nonchalance and inconsistent jerks. She charms with dishevelled hair and disregarding composure, rubbing the unkempt eye-liner half way across her cheek. Alison Mosshart doesn't give a fuck...but i do.


I want her fluent dress code; raven hair, leopard print, cigarette and gold Dior Homme boots. But her unauthorised uniform is hopelessly inimitable; when she looks effortlessly dishevelled, i look effortlessly homeless. No-one can be her like she can. No one else can convincingly seize her unwarranted attitude, raw and torn by quakes of creative passion. No-one can puppeteer her credentials with the same liberated ease and no-one should try. 


With the upcoming nuptials of bandmate, Jamie Hince and his fiance, Kate Moss, Alison's public profile ascends into the infinities but, despite being littered with designer hand-outs, she is uncorrupted by industry demons. She lives for the moment, the music, the art and the fans...not dresses and diamonds. She's effervescently refreshing.


 "I’m a jeans and T-shirt girl. I have always loved the way rock’n’roll bands dress — nobody is ever tied down in expensive things that could get wrecked. I love that freedom. And I like shoes that I can run in"


There's only one Alison Mosshart; unparalleled, unmatched and unsurpassable, so i must admit defeat.