Equal parts singer-songwriter confessional rant and dark cabaret of the Kurt Weill-ian Weimar persuasion, this is a heady selection of hammering-piano-driven art-pop. Her oblique narratives deal with confusion and bewilderment as a series of self-analyzing conversations with herself: be kind to her or treat her mean, she’ll make the most of it; she’ll open her eyes when you kiss her and see the expression of a dog loving the food that’s on its lips; and there’s a better version of herself coming. All her relationships have become a window—either too dirty to see through, or so clear she can’t tell what she’s looking through. It’s better to break it, rather than him or her. What makes all this catharsis work is the stridency and bravado of her telling.
Fiona Apple
