Bjork, Vespertine

Yes I fancy her, have done right from the beginning.

Even that video with the orange dress, the one that two very similar girls on TV knocked because they didn’t like her legs. It showed her at the height of full on pixieness, an artist totally absorbed with the task in hand, unconcerned with all the shit that exists outside her wonderful little world. That little world, that to this day, remains untouched by the parade of unmentionable tedium that is constantly rammed down every single one of our senses, day after hour after minute.

It can’t be mentioned here you see, to do so would stain the beauty of pixieness, the artwork on the cover and the little world that it represents. Even the text on this page has to remain faithful, any words from the outside world would surely start the clock ticking again. Contamination.

The little world is without obvious melodies that are an absolute must on the other side, that’s part of being in this little place though, to much reality will fuck it all up. Instead we are treated to a journey through clouds, stopping briefly at enchanting places. The journey is lined with delicate chorus voices that come from nowhere and die away again with an equal amount of grace. Straight from the worlds biggest Cathedral, complete with long white dresses that never reach the ground.

Along with this the Bjork voice is as fine as ever, the phrasing, the accent, its all there. Never to far away to become uncomfortable, she likes having us around, you know, one by one if we want. There’s always going to be that barrier though, with us being from the other side we’re never really going to understand this heavenly place. Don’t even think about trying it on either, she loves us I’m sure and our newly transformed outlook on pixielife. But that’s as far as it goes.

A darkened room, red wine, that warm feeling, and now that other place that we’ve been looking for ever since sleep dreams became crap. Harps, little noises hinting that these places are possibly not without an amount of technology that allows us to inhabit them realistically. Layer upon layer of intricately detailed texturised greatness. Stings on voices on strings on echoes on her voice on her voice.

You could be anyone when she’s whispering in your ear, and anyone when she rises 70ft into the air in full voice, but without sounding, ‘other side’. One of the little places is a cave on the coast, you get to sit all warm and wet watching her going through her daily pixie activities.
The whole thing will have the vibe of one of those ridiculous perfume adverts, all wet hair, blank looks, anorexia and a frosted bottle with grey waves splashing about. Whoever you are, you’ll look good, trust me I’ve been there. When you get out of the shower, all hot and pink breaking out into a sweat, pull all your wet hair onto your face and gaze for ages at yourself in the mirror. Stare for long enough and behold that thought will come into your head. The little dances, the little face. The voices from nowhere echoing down the cave. Pixie heaven.
Its time stopping originality at its best, the happiest dreams of nothing, imported by an angel for whom we hold in the highest regard. A feeling of personal fulfilment awaits all those willing to defect to heaven for a try out.

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