#67 St Vincent

“I thought I was through with this day. All I wanted to do was unplug the phone, pour myself a bourbon whiskey, glance through the clippings concerning that particular case, just to check, and switch off the lights except for the old lamp on my desk. Maybe I’ll fall asleep right here, in my office. So there I was, sitting alone in the feeble light and silence, when she came in. Annie. She did not knock before she entered the room but quietly closed the door and turned towards me. I was barely able to see her, but I could imagine her large eyes, her smile. She whispered, ethereal, “Hello”, her voice mingling with the plumes of smoke. The night had just begun...”

The Black Dahlia. That was my first thought when Annie Clark came in the office. I could not really manage to imagine her before I actually met her, but there she was, standing upright in front of us, smiling, delightfully old-fashioned. Varnish stilettos, a straight skirt, a jacket cut just before the waist, huge eyes and wild hair. As if she had just gotten out from an old movie, or from another dimension. She looked amazing, but there is much to come.

We led her to an apartment overhanging the rooftops of Paris, a boudoir full of old Chinese style furniture, faded photographs, eaves and loads of books stacked up on shelves covering the walls. The place was filled with her cinematic presence. Whether on a balcony with a panoramic view on Paris, or lying down on a silk bed cover, the whole place resounded with her voice, humming Bowie’s Five Years when the silence was too sweltering. We were all fascinated, well, let’s say it: completely mesmerized. Of course, we overacted a bit, and so did she. Annie was simpering but only because we egged on her.

When you listen to « Marry Me », you immediately think about how Annie Clark collects bits and pieces from every kind of woman to try and be all of them. In this album, almost a little too dense, one can guess a bit of PJ Harvey, a dash of Feist, something of these old-fashioned female jazz singers, but also angry and loving women; women who meet all of these characteristics. The record is so condensed we wondered what Annie would do on her own. Yet, she convinced us that her bare songs could stand up as well without all the tricks she used on the album. When we saw her walking around in the apartment, beating on glasses, humming in the street, trying to play with everything, it became obvious that the excess we felt listening to her album is not so much pretension but the urge to experiment and meddle with everything.

Or maybe not, maybe for an hour we just pretended, and she had us under her thumb.

Thanks to Sskizo for the translation.