Oh, Jenny Lewis. Lately, everywhere I turn, there you are. I try to avoid it, but inevitably your voice is the only one coming out of my speakers ... and I think I’m falling in love.

I heard the Postal Service song “Nothing Better,” and now I can’t listen to Give Up without skipping straight to that track and hitting “repeat.” Mid-song, you politely ask, “Can I please interject?” before embarking on the sweeping counterpart to Ben Gibbard’s whine. He and Postal Service partner Jimmy Tamborello can use their computer programs to produce as many eccentric, clashing, beeping rhythms as they like, but it’s your single verse that instills sweetness in their music. At least that duo is wise and invited you on the supporting tour to play guitar and steal the show’s spotlight during “Nothing Better,” exactly like how you upstage Gibbard on the album’s best song.

Of course, Rilo Kiley is your full-time gig. Last year’s The Execution Of All Things opens with a gently skipping drum machine and a ringing vibraphone, and then your voice enters—hoarsely breathing lyrics in asymmetrical phrases such as “Let’s sit around and talk about the modern age.” What a brash opening proclamation. My knees weaken. You sing, “I do this thing where I think I’m real sick, but I won’t go to the doctor to find out about it,” and I want to leave my house to attend to you. You’re confident, yet fragile; confounding and sexy.

On “A Better Son/Daughter,” you intone, “Sometimes in the morning I am petrified and can’t move/Awake, but can’t open my eyes/And the weight is crushing down on my lungs.” I think, “Didn’t you issue this complaint in the opener?” Perhaps your voice is growing cloying and wearisome. But midway through the album, when the rest of the band joins, your voice drops its daintiness and acquires an intimidating edge. “Sometimes when you’re on, you’re really fucking on,” you sing with a completely unexpected zeal for the “fuck.” You immediately redeem yourself; you’re a deceiving beauty—initially precious but equally vicious.

Finally, you appeared onstage in Philadelphia, tuning a guitar and checking a cluster of keyboards because Rilo Kiley wasn’t only headlining, but also serving as the backing band for the second act, folkie M. Ward. Ward shyly shuffled onstage, baseball cap pulled tightly around his eyes, obscuring his facial features; if he wants to look anonymous, so be it. It suits his musical style: a lone guitarist wandering through Southern backcountry roads, thumb out for passing cars, channeling the pain of his travesties into the 12-bar blues. Yet Jenny, you actually had the panache to jump happily during those rare moments when Ward led your mates through a more rollicking section. Once again, your backup vocals had the ability to alter the mood of another’s work—during “Sad, Sad Song,” you traded the refrain with Ward and made a painful moment alluring. Your enigmatic style reemerged; the song commanded you to be distraught, yet you were empowered.

Rilo Kiley’s own set showcased your dual personality just as well as The Execution Of All Things does. You opened the show alone with a giggly hello and your guitar, introducing a new song about your vulnerable relationship with a family member; some nervous banter followed. But then, before playing “The Good That Won’t Come Out,” you implored the soundman to “fucking crank up” the drum machine. As the band worked its way through a louder, more engaging version of its album, there you were emphasizing the sparse curses for added contrast and promising to run away from “the assholes that made me” in “Paint’s Peeling.” Who would’ve expected your personality to have such a coarse facet? Now I’m concerned you might humiliate me in a drinking contest.

You didn’t just stand at the microphone singing your provocative, literary lyrics. You traded the guitar for Pierre de Reeder’s bass, played a handful of keyboards and a toy piano, and whipped out a harmonica. Your group’s co-writer, Blake Sennett, produced a great array of sounds from his guitar, but he wasn’t likeable. He repeatedly complained about the sound quality, then tried to win back the audience with too much banter at the set’s conclusion. But not you. Jenny, you took the sound problems in stride, darting to another microphone when the first wasn’t working.

The only trouble is, I think I noticed something ominous on your ring finger during the performance. I’m not certain, because I was distracted by the bangs falling over your eyes and that off-the-shoulder T-shirt, but if that was a ring, I think we can still work something out. Maybe I can join Rilo Kiley on tour—shake a rhythm egg or drive the van—and prove I’m just as seductive as you are. Jenny, I think we have a future.