All Asia Bar, January 2007 
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I hope Xander stays around here. The man, with his deep soulful eyes, impeccable style and honest-to-God belief that "Endless Love" is the greatest love song ever, is a rare serenader in a stoned-out soundscape of shameless sound-alikes. He's making music of the people, for the people (assuming the people are the lovesick brethren of blogger nation, and further supposing that this entire thing isn't some attempt to publicly disgrace Zoom) and he's giving out his address on the internet. He's hoping for a grassroots campaign to take him to the top where he can surround himself with those who have been with him the whole trip, where they can all live the high-life together. The last thing he'd call himself is an artist; if anything, he's the rollicking barnstormer with the velvet voice that we always knew would come out of Boston - but had to go from coast to coast in the process - and who’s return should, to fans of his style of notebook poetry, be right up there with the prodigal sons.

"I want my music to go into the headphones of anybody who wants to listen to it," he says when I ask him where he wants to go in the next year. "Wherever I can have fun, that's where I'll go." We look down and notice we're down with our cigarettes and that Jack Frost has been dropkicking at our noses, and so we head inside.

The next day...

The next day was bitterly cold, but my lady and I decided to roam the streets and celebrate the Boston winter in all of its brilliance. The trip ended at Xander Singh's apartment, living proof that the address in this piece is the real deal (and on the free copies of The Ice Cream Parlour EP is a pictured of a fazed Singh with his phone number below). He made us a delicious drink, offered us a hookah of fine grape tobacco and played a rousing version of "God Only Knows".

We sat down and, looking down at the city glowing below, we listened to his CD. Somehow, when in the room with the man who wrote it, the bittersweet, Postal Service-style synth bop of "Ice Cream" takes on a new tone. It is like an old and frayed tattoo of some old war brigade on a man's arm: the song is where Singh has been, imprinted on him in a way beautiful and visceral enough to offer the listener just a glimpse of how striking the original moment must have been. Such is the goal of the storyteller, the back-street performer, and Singh truly is one. Plus, this open door policy (which, by the way, strikes me as incredibly dangerous) is an incredible thing in a world of artists existing behind a veil of internet obscurity. Singh wants to connect with his listeners on a surreal, almost juvenile level. Doesn't it makes you feel good to know that somewhere in this city exists a man like this - a man who would turn down an offer from a producer of the magnitude of the one printed above and the chance to work with Paul McCartney's bass player because he just felt he was too YOUNG to be thrust into the big time, and because he would rather strut the city streets of the Hub and sing bittersweet sonnets of isolation and hope for the Laptop Generation?

It makes me feel swell. He's as close to a poet in my opinion as a man can get without being obnoxious or deranged. He gave me a hug when I left and offered his house to crash at whenever I needed. The strange thing might be that he meant it.