My favourite song of the year so far is a cover. The original is by Crooked Fingers, and I have never in my life heard of this band, which makes me wonder, and not for the first time, how many other beautiful, brilliant songs are out there hiding away from us. (I’m sure there are thousands—and it’s a good thing, knowing that surprises like this are waiting for us the rest of our listening lives.) The version I’ve been listening to is by the National and St. Vincent, which is a lovely combination of voices anyway, but the song itself is perfect, a real heartbreaker: wistful, wry, precise in its articulation of a mood that doesn’t get explored very often. I got to hear it through I Am Fuel, You Are Friends, an mp3 blog that introduces me to a song I adore probably once a week; I know I’m supposed to miss independent record stores, but people like Heather Browne make it hard to do so.