"Apres Moi, Le Deluge"

Regina Spektor is that little girl who, at age 5, unexpectedly stands up in front of her parents' dinner party and, fingers scrunched around her poofy taffeta skirt, begins to sing so joyously that all goes quiet, her fingers obliviously pulling up her skirts until her underpants are showing, spinning and hopping, bouncy curls spinning and jouncing, while she belts out her song to the butterflies and moon and her cat Piddles, and everyone just stands there wanting to love her and bottle her joy and keep her 5 forever.

She is that.

And it is amazing to watch.

She started the night with an acappella version of "Ain't No Cover," beat her drumsticks on a wooden chair next to her piano for "Poor Little Rich Boy," sang accompanied by a beat-boxing Only Son to "Hotel Song," and charmingly flubbed up a nonetheless beautiful cover of "Real Love" by John Lennon, capping the night off with "Samson" as stars lit up the stage behind her.

She is beautiful. She is hypnotic. Her voice is so spooky and wonderful that it sometimes feels like you're witnessing the trembling wail of an angel. And she is filled with the big big joy and wonder of a little kid, smiling bashfully, talking shyly to the audience, giggling at herself in the middle of a song, curtsying and blowing kisses at the crowd, and, most importantly, infusing everyone in her presence with the pure bliss of childhood love, just for that short period of time until the house lights come back up and you have to go back out into the big world.

She makes you happy to be alive and to be able to see such beautiful things, and that's no easy feat.

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