I used to get this vague feeling when I heard a song, particularly from a female vocalist, that I knew was definitively good – whatever that truly means. It often happened at the build of a chorus. There would be a tingling beneath my sternum, as if there were an inner pressure to align myself with the music in every form possible. More often than not, this pressure would relieve itself with a silent shed of a few inexplicable tears. I had not fully felt this for some years now, to the point where I very nearly forgot I ever knew it. But last Saturday when I heard a live show from Snail Mail, an artist about whom I have long been waiting to write, I once again remembered what it means to fully connect to a piece of music for no more or less than the entirety of its sound.