It’s surely no accident in the serendipitous scheme of things that her biggest song to date - the one that woke up the world when she sang it on the Grammys in 2019 - was “The Joke,” a tune that weaves together verses about suffering or insecure people ranging from frightened immigrants to facing torment over sexual identity issues. Although she owns up to her narcissistic tendencies, as could probably anyone driven to put in the work to reach the level of fame she has, she’s always been natively a practitioner and proponent of what she calls “debilitating empathy.” Maybe she was born an empath, or maybe she became one after coming out of a near-death experience when she was a child, almost fatally stricken with meningitis focusing on the different experiences or reactions of her adult family members instead of herself as she lay on her hospital bed, she had what she calls an acute “awakening to life’s subtle power structures.” Whatever brought it on, Carlile is that rare pop or rock star gifted with complete self-consciousness and confidence but also the soulful clairvoyance to read a room… even a really, really big, global room.
But “Me” isn’t a title that would have exactly worked for her memoir, either.
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