Shayla—pronounced SHAY-luh—drifts onto the tongue like sea-spray over Dingle’s emerald cliffs, yet she carries in her satchel the jasmine scent of distant bazaars, for the name is said to be both a modern Irish offshoot of Síle (itself a cousin of Cecilia, “blind to all but faith”) and the Arabic word for a gossamer scarf that women knot against desert sun. She is, therefore, a traveler; and across the American charts she has wandered much like an Italian troubadour, rising to a bright peak in the early 2000s before meandering, still melodious, through recent years. Listeners hear in Shayla the lilting “shay,” soft as a violin tremolo in a Venetian piazza, and the gentle “la,” as if the note itself refuses to fade. Artists borrow her for ballads, parents for daughters they imagine twirling beneath fairy-lighted pergolas, and humorists tip their hats to the subtle “shay,” which sounds pleasingly like an invitation to stay for tiramisù. Altogether, Shayla is a ribbon of sound and story—half wild Atlantic breeze, half silk ribbon in an espresso cup—promising a life attuned to beauty, movement, and the quiet wonder that comes when heritage, like good olive oil, mingles effortlessly with the new.
| Shayla Worley - |
| Shayla Black - |