Seriously, can we talk about Fiona Apple for a second? She’s so fucking talented I don’t even know where to start.
I live in a grass-is-always-greener state of mind, so I’m a little sad that she doesn’t write books, because her songs tell stories about the human condition that make me weep, make me laugh, make me curl into a ball on the dirty bathroom rug and murmur her words over and over to the cold, white tile and the toothpaste-stained mirror.
If Fiona Apple wrote books, my copies would be underlined and dogeared and covered in tears and snot and sweat.
How can you not love someone who uses the words rubicon and folderol in the same fucking song?
We have one degree of separation, Fiona and I, and she doesn’t even know it. A million years ago, when I was young and firm-fleshed (and, as a side note, the fact that I am no longer either of those things is currently causing me an embarrassing amount of angst, which, in turn, is making me appreciate her music that much more), my roommate dated one of her brothers. There are so many stories I want to tell here, but they’re not mine to tell. So fucking painful for a memoirist. Maybe I’ll write fiction someday.
Then, a lifetime later, my best friend lived with that same brother for many years. I spent a lot of time at their house. There were barbecues and birthday parties that Fiona attended, family events with lots of laughter and wine and cigarettes. And yet, aside from casual greetings and random, multi-party conversations, we never spoke to each other. I was intimidated, I’m not gonna lie.
I’m shy. You wouldn’t necessarily make that assessment about me, if you met me at a party. My armor is well-crafted and shiny. But still.
This was a long time ago, before (or around the time of) her amazing album, Extraordinary Machine. And long before her current release, The Idler Wheel… both of which–and especially if you listen to them in their entirety, back to back–are a better memoir than anything I’ll probably ever churn out.
Then, even later (or what I really mean is more recently), I worked for an actress who starred on a primetime network show. I spent a lot of time bringing her–the actress–shots of wheatgrass and the newest Chloe pants on memo from Fred Segal. And, in my down time, I hung out in the trailer alley on set, trying to anticipate her next need. The second second on the show was the former assistant to Fiona’s famous ex-boyfriend, a lauded indie director with whom she had a long and tumultuous relationship. We shared war stories, he and I, and the general consensus–no matter how much shit we were willing to talk about our current employers–was that Fiona was the real deal, an artist who was–is–bound and determined to tell the truth about herself, and, to a larger degree, the world, by exposing her own raw, ugly, beautiful reality in every line of every song she’s ever written.
I don’t know.
This is the thing I’m trying to say: Fiona Apple makes me feel like I’m not alone in the world.
It’s not the only thing I want from true art, but holy fuck, it’s all I need right now.
Thank you, Fiona.
EVERY SINGLE NIGHT
Every single night
I endure the flight
Of little wings of white-flamed
Butterflies in my brain
These ideas of mine
Percolate the mind
Trickle down the spine
Swarm the belly, swelling to a blaze
That’s where the pain comes in
Like a second skeleton
Trying to fit beneath the skin
I can’t fit the feelings in
Every single night’s alight with my brain
What’d I say to her?
Why’d I say it to her?
What does she think of me?
That i’m not what I ought to be
That i’m what I try not to be
It’s got to be somebody else’s fault
I can’t get caught
If what I am is what I am,’ cause I does what I does
Then brother, get back, cause my breast’s gonna bust open
The rib is the shell and the heart is the yolk and
I just made a meal for us both to choke on
Every single night’s a fight with my brain
I just want to feel everything
So i’m gonna try to be still now
Gonna renounce the mill a little while and
If we had a double-king-sized bed
We could move in it and i’d soon forget
That what I am is what I am ’cause I does what I does
And maybe i’d relax, let my breast just bust open
My heart’s made of parts of all that surround me
And that’s why the devil just can’t get around me
Every single night’s all right, every single night’s a fight
And every single fight’s all right with my brain
I just want to feel everything
I just want to feel everything
I just want to feel everything
I just want to feel everything
