Fiona Apple
When The Pawn

THE REVIEW

In my room, there's a large French door. It opens onto a small terrace that climbs up a hillock, clinging by teeth and nails. Just below, there's a small, dull yellow cane thicket, like the sun on the cold days of this long winter. Today there's a bit of wind, the olive branches sway and wriggle, the clouds move at a brisk pace. Passing clouds are destined to be replaced by others on these days. A bit like everything that appears in our lives. The thin dancing branches remind me a bit of the long chestnut, almost blonde hair of some slender girls with roots planted firmly in the ground. Little women who can't detach from their land even if they wanted to, bound to some vital sap, chained to soil that somewhat nourishes them and somewhat enslaves them. Everyone needs an outlet, an impunity escape, some illusion of freedom.

I like to think that Fiona is one of these girls, so fragile and weak that they seem almost invincible by contrast. I've always liked people who seem to hide, ashamed of having only an overt superficiality to show. Sensitivity is discovered, not seen. Apple is not afraid but terrified, living "On the Bound." On the boundary between a difficult past and a sincere talent. The honesty of her music is the mirror of something simple and extraordinary. Sitting at the piano, she can become an ogre able to subdue the listener with her sweet violence. "..and the future is on the bound, hell don't know my fury." One lives on a small boundary and thinks they are on the brink of an explosion. One tries to ponder, to consider the variables, to find a logical solution to something that follows no rules. And so, one ends up whispering: "..i do imbue my blue into myself, i make it bitter.." right after shouting: "You're all I need." It happens to know who we would need, to recognize a kindred spirit, but not to be able to avoid giving them up. Fighting would be too complex, complicated. So we let ourselves be at the mercy of ourselves, imprisoned by bars of sugary glass. The music’s progression is martial, like the soul’s verdicts. The piano accompanies bass and drums. Fiona is a modern pop singer-songwriter. She knows how to interpret herself passionately. She draws sparingly from soul and jazz, but without losing the thread of minimal expressiveness. In her music, there's the rage, the despair of someone who is a thinking being in a world of trained sheep. And as I listen, I understand that perhaps we are not few in these conditions. A strange light envelops the snippet of the world I see. The wind is now light. The girl knows herself, has learned to live with her weaknesses, to pay tribute to those who appreciate her despite them. But in "Love Ridden," she bravely admits her difficult relationship with sexuality: "..I want your warm, but it will only make me colder when it's over, so I can't tonight baby..". A love that leaves scars even before it strikes us. Even before the flame has been lit, there's already too much light not to put our hands in front of our eyes, to protect ourselves from something we know could be beautiful, but which we relinquish. The confidential dimension of "Paper Bag" captures me. Bass and piano start quietly, the lounge atmosphere is served as soon as the drums start and other instruments join in. "..Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much too love..". The need to love is painful, but fasting sometimes seems like the only possible solution, the only way out when everything seems so hard and difficult. Perhaps we reflect too much; to avoid hurting ourselves and causing pain to someone, we sacrifice ourselves. We wear the crown of thorns without expecting beatification. We wish to make a mistake at least once, to make a wrong choice, to find an uncomfortable solution for someone else. Fiona in "Mistake" tries to reclaim this freedom, but those who have wings to fly at high altitudes hardly manage to lower themselves; we are destined for this. The track is alluring, almost sensual. The bass groove and the effected guitar make it very catchy and atmospheric. In "Fast as you can," there's the trace of a difficult memory, a terrible moment in a girl's life. Honor to those who manage to evoke it with such great courage. The magical "Get gone" and "I know" will slow the tension a bit, wrapping us in a very classic and sophisticated atmosphere. The album is mature, complete, and flowing. 

I continue to "feel," and look back at the French door of my room. A usual action but one that takes on different meanings every time I practice it, steeped in dreams and hopes. There's a red rug that sleeps on brick steps. It unrolls into a narrow corridor, with black and white photos and crumpled posters of aged concerts. Each of them represents moments worth living. The lamps gently illuminate the rough ochre walls, as if they don't want to disturb them in their timeless slumber. The alley opens into a large circular room, the ebony tables smelling of a mix of cigar smoke and polish products. On top of them, tablecloths with long yellowed fringes. Large goblets are ready to listen to stories and to taste some good wine. On the walls, thick curtains reminiscent of their color, clean but steeped in the dust of lived life. The wood under my feet creaks slightly and emanates the human warmth of those who have previously walked on it. At the end of this room is a large mezzanine. It's not too high, allowing for an optimal view of those who reside there. A couple of armchairs on its sides as if to reinforce the feeling of welcome that is felt. In the center, a black grand piano, a vintage semi-acoustic, a 1950s American Stratocaster, a double bass, and a drum set with its cymbals, partly dull and partly shiny. I sit at a table in the third row, not so close to feel embarrassed, nor so far as to miss a single note. The seat is comfortable and relaxing, I slightly move the candle to the right, and a vase with fresh lilies to the left. Their whiteness creates a fitting contrast with the room’s warmth. On the stool in front of the piano, a girl plays, awaiting the room to fill, undecided between melancholy and the moment’s anxiety. She wears a yellow dress, with long chestnut hair tending to blonde that falls just below her shoulders. She hasn't noticed my silent arrival, absorbed partly in her thoughts and partly in what she's playing. I observe her and it almost seems I see her hair moved by the wind, as if they were olive branches well-rooted to the ground. Hair moved by a suave wind, one that can carry away the clouds from her existence..