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Conformity kills the soul. Cassandra is a misfit for this world. So she escapes, or comes toward us, with her black supportive underwear. Without a guiding star, she runs. She aims at constellations. She observes the planet. Entomology enters pop rock. And she walked a three-legged dog. Now she washes away the sensuality embedded in her blue eyes and red hair. She doesn't worry about the cat's sterilization: twenty minutes too many. Too detached to think of a man. A New Yorker with a desolate and idyllic heart. Sensitivity offered to daily lynchings. Artistic aspirations projected onto a naturalistic plane. The mind distant. A beautiful voice, a bit thorny, like a gooseberry. A fine song, covered with tissue paper; under the paper, sad. With a basket of strawberries, for her grandmother, Cassandra is already heading into the woods. She doesn't prophesize disasters, except personal ones.
Folk pop, indie rock, ballads, and field recordings. And neurotic behaviors; synths and background jazz. The songwriter accompanies you in her free and disillusioned narrations. Her writing becomes at times more slender, at times more scathing. A balloon balanced on a pin. With one strike, Cassandra says that her mind and heart belong to her. From her world of solitude, she asks to still believe in the goodness of people. «It’s a thin line over the planet / Just a thin line between us and nothingness». What is thin is deep.
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