Fiona Apple
Tidal

I love women, all women: specimens of sweetness; wombs that generate and attract us. I love the delightful curves and the way they walk, the eyes that delve into you while observing, the pout of young girls and the peaceful gaze of matrons.
I Love women, and as Lou Reed sang, I am a "Gift to the women of this earth."
I find that they are the true keepers of human sensitivity: without them, only darkness and the brambles that arise from men's words, rotten and old brambles, petrified in the usual way of acting and relating. Tired and boring veins.

Fiona Apple is a woman, wonderful; when she recorded this album she was only nineteen but with an incredible command of her means and a fluidity in writing that was formidable.
The tones of this album range from the aggressive "Sleep to Dream" to the dreamy and almost trip-hop "The First Taste"; the sounds typical of the nineties are very present, close to a certain signature electronic style in the arrangements.
Despite the perfect packaging, each track exudes an authentically animalistic soul spirit: as if this sweet tigress had rummaged through decades of black music crystallizing it through her own sensitivity.
Then, if there's one thing that makes me angry, it's seeing a woman suffer... especially if she's enchanting; and I've poured a lot of anger because there is a palpable sense of alienation, of a lack of adherence to a world governed by troglodytes armed with penises who shout in each other's faces, believing this will please their angel, the mother of all: the woman.
A complex and heartfelt writing characterizes the birth of this young mother: uterine beats that support the newborn and rock it until birth; echoes of funky that certainly make the child strong and robust and a healthy kick in the lower parts of her companion in "Criminal", with its oriental tail and all the furious blackness it emanates.
Fiona was and is a schizophrenic goddess waiting to be delightfully kissed by the right man, and then her song will be more cautious and subdued; for now, she gives us these precious pianistic dubloons, inviting you, women, to follow her in the Sapphic dance hidden in the woods so the pig men do not see you and cover you with blows or boring cuddles.
Fiona, I am your man.