She’s trending on Twitter, her emotive face shows up in a group text, her beautiful voice Dopplers out of a passing car. There is the Baader-Meinhof effect too once you are aware of Eilish, she really is everywhere. The muchness of Eilish’s online presence is overwhelming and kaleidoscopic, her own posts and performances spawning fan accounts and compilation videos and ecstatic reaction videos and memes, so many memes, refractions of Billie Eilish ad infinitum. I have listened to her perform at the Democratic National Convention, the Academy Awards, the Grammys (where her 2019 debut album, When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go?, racked up a total of 11 wins), Coachella, SNL, Howard Stern, NPR’s Tiny Desk, Ellen, The Tonight Show, and in a car with James Corden. Here she is a few years later, singing at a talent show. Here, in the trailer for a forthcoming documentary about her life, is blond-haired toddler Billie Eilish Pirate Baird O’Connell perched on a piano bench. I know what a Billie Eilish burp sounds like, and also a sneeze. I have already watched her ride a pinto across a New Zealand beach, get her sprained ankle wrapped, grind on a bag of bagels, blow a slobbery raspberry into her brother Finneas’s face, mimic her mother, expound on the seriousness of the coronavirus, shoot water out one nostril while using a neti pot, and fit much of an Oscar Schmidt Aloha ukulele headstock into her mouth.
B efore I ever meet Billie Eilish, I feel like I know her.
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