Surely, the likes of Sufjan Stevens, Bjork, Prince, and Elvis Costello will outweigh Sara McLachlan’s and Annie Lennox’s self-important Joni Mitchell interpretations (Mitchell herself despises 99.9% of contemporary female artists that cite her as an influence anyway), but nothing can save the presence of James Taylor’s moniker on that CD. Am I really going to have to purchase a compilation with James Taylor on it? Please, God, let this just come in the mail. I literally fell asleep at a James Taylor concert an ex-girlfriend dragged me to in High School. If only I’d gone through puberty at that point, I would have had the balls to tell her to go fuck herself, instead of suffering through it. Well, sleeping through it. I eventually got my revenge by taking her to see Harry Pussy. Late bloomer.