"Billie Jean is not my girl."

Before I could even laugh at the sudden impromptu solo show in my living room, before one roommate could sing the "-rl" with the full appreciation she intended to give, another roommate cut in with a firm and insistent response.

"No. No, it is lover. 'Billie Jean is not my lov-er.'"

There was such fierceness in the correction, an adamant attention to maintaining the lyrical accuracy of Michael Jackson's 1983 classic. You can tear the man-turned-mythical creature apart all you want, but dare not misrepresent his lyrics.

For something as foundational, as substantial, as significant as the story of the song, it sure can be difficult to distinguish what one hears from what the other sings. I spent months believing Ben Folds ended "Army" singing, "I thought about your mommy." I seriously thought the title line of "One Angry Dwarf and 200 Solemn Faces" began "one angry porn fan." Certainly, the interpretations made no sense to me. But it was Ben Folds. I did not think much to question him.

And how often do we really question the lyrics we think we understand? Who consults album liner notes for verification? Who sits down and makes a conscious effort to study the vocabulary, get the rhymes and rhythms down exactly like Twista or Big Boi? If lyrics do come into question, it is more often after sitting next to someone and awkwardly realizing your lines are completely different from his. We just wanted to sing along, so we became our own teachers.

As demonstrated by the Ben Folds lyrical fiascos, my own hearing is detrimental enough to the comprehension of the song. Turns out I am a terrible teacher and ought simply to consult the liner notes, and consciously study the vocabulary.

Yet sometimes even the craftiest Internet searches leave one without anybody else's — much less the songwriter's — interpretation of a song. When I first heard songs from Lis Harvey's 2004 release Porcupine, my Internet connection was poor. The buffering insisted upon disrupting each track every few seconds. No lyrics page could be found. Pairing my hearing with faulty technology, you think I would just call it a day. During "Fish in the Pan," I had to ponder, your hand touching my what? Hearing "Four-Thirty," I questioned whether Harvey really commemorated the life cycle of a fruit fly.

Instead of calling it a day, turning to something with printed, copyrighted, correct lyrics within easy access, I became rather fixated. I wanted to know what Lis sang about. I wanted to understand her intricate poetics in addition to her innovative melodies.

Before long, the Internet connection improved — full tracks played without interruption. After a while, the lyrical misinterpretations cleared up — your hand was touching my hand. The addiction has not yet subsided. And playing shows regularly throughout town, Lis Harvey offered a sound I was able to indulge in excessively. Recognition at the Madison Area Music Awards, The Art Fair on the Square, evenings at The Great Dane, the Sona Music Festival on the Terrace. The gift of Lis Harvey's musical presence was everywhere in Madison.

Certainly, we would lend our folk gem to other areas of the nation now and then. A weekend in Minnesota, a few days out East. But Madison was home to Harvey. My goodness, who else would write and record a song such as "Far Away" in appreciation of our city? Madison was home to Harvey.

So when I opened an e-mail she sent a few weeks ago, I was certain I misread the press release as I often mishear lyrics. "Farewell to Madison concert, Nov. 17 at Café Montmartre." Excuse me, what? "Guinness World Record-Setting Folksinger Leaves Beloved Madison Home for the West."

The words were abrasive to my eyes. I deleted the message. I turned off the lights, turned on Porcupine. I lay on my bed in moody appreciation, listened with deep contemplation. It is such a tricky paradox to reconcile. One wants to wish well for the artists who can thrive anywhere there are open ears, artists ready to make the leap from the quaint Madison scene to the competitive coastal industry. One equally wants to selfishly keep them all her own.

Putting that contradiction aside, similar to Isthmus' Kenneth Burns verbally wiping away the tears last January when Joy Dragland parted for the big New York City music scene, I find myself making a feeble, insufficient attempt at thanking Lis for the sounds, attention and energy she offered Madison over the years. I find myself making a feeble, insufficient attempt at thanking Lis for the standards she set — musically, professionally, personally — for the rest of Madison artists.

The best way for you to thank Harvey is likely by showing up at the Momo tonight. Never heard her before? There is no better time. Rounding out the band sound with the accompaniment of guitarist Josh Harty and the Dorothy Heralds' bassist Gary Chin, the show is one not to be missed. Do not know what there is to be thankful for? The rave reviews from The Washington Post, The Chicago Tribune, our very own Wisconsin State Journal decorating her website indicate otherwise.

The only danger is realizing what a talent you have long missed. After she dexterously picks the strings during "Life is Fatal," precisely varies the notes during "Nothing Ruder," randomly commentates on the being of a caterpillar, you will know. The comparisons to the likes of Ani DiFranco or Lisa Loeb become completely justified. The professions of the musical poet, the prophetic songwriter become emphatically reinforced. That paradox will once again arise. "She is fantastic, why is she leaving?"

The reasons matter far less than the legacy. And the legacy she leaves me is quite possibly even greater than what she leaves the community.

New to local sounds last year, it did not take long to discover there are many musicians who feel justified in seeing their names in print. They are bands. This is a paper. They rock out. I tear up the typewriter. We go along simply doing what we do. I was satisfied with the situation.

Then Harvey came along, throwing everything out of whack. Months after our interview, she sent the fabulous news of her MAMA award. Months after her win, she randomly sent word of her guest-listing me at her Annex show. Months after her cozy set, she thwarted my timidity with musicians and gave the greeting of an old friend. Harvey's striving to bridge a gap between the media and the maker, between coworkers of sorts and comrades, has more than once left me expecting a mere nod of appreciation, more than once led me to an awkward hug when a hearty handshake would have sufficed.

As such, the best way I can thank Lis is hopefully by writing this: the sharing of your music would have been enough. It would have been enough to be one of many enlightened by your lyrics, spellbound by your songs. California has no idea what it is in for. And when you return, I am more than willing to share even my most fantastic grilled cheese sandwich.