Bjork: Vespertine
Reviewed as part of Addison Godel's Desert Island Collection
In
Vespertine's first song, Bjork - glacial princess, magical fairy,
crystal-throated genius - invites us explicitly to join her in a "hidden
place." The rest of the album follows the same course less
explicitly: it shows us a path into a secret world, where Bjork whispers us
secrets to make us giggle, wiggle our toes, and cry. It is a special album
in the same sense that your unexpected friend appearing at the end of your
birthday party holding an outstretched flower is a special gift.
To listen to Vespertine is to feel a shivering sense of vulnerability - Bjork is letting down her guard, asking you to come play with her in a secret snow fort only you two know about, and the sense of trust and associated responsibility can almost be overwhelming. There's an instinct that tells us to politely look away when Bjork bares herself through the vinyl - do we deserve such a glimpse into her sometimes-fragile heart? "I'm sorry you saw that," she says - or quotes? - in "An Echo, A Stain," one of several songs tinged with undercurrents of tremendous darkness. The gripping "Pagan Poetry" is ultimately a love song, but it acknowledges that love is a whirling, seething mass of intense feelings - some of them so deep they stare back at us as coldly as guilt and despair. When Bjork cries "He makes me want to hand myself over," she somehow conveys both the joy and the incredible scariness of that thought.
The music itself is delicate, a pixie-orchestra of bells, chimes, strings and shimmering voices. The chamber-music instrumentation contributes to the sense of intimacy, as does the careful attention to minimalism; Bjork is unafraid to let her voice stand with very little assistance (or none at all) if the tone of the song requires it. This elegant care combined with the singer's own distinctly confident vocal style make it possible to pull great feeling even from those passages whose lyrics are entirely in Icelandic (a language with which I am completely unfamiliar).
Vespertine is an album of connections between Bjork and the rest of the world: in "Heirloom" she celebrates a magical, dream-woven bond with her mother and son; in "Aurora" she seems to be chanting in adoration of the cold and beautiful Arctic sky. All throughout, the bond between Bjork and the listener, raw and rich, holds unbroken. Few albums in recent memory can boast such penetrating beauty, or such intimate communication. It is so achingly perfect I cannot bear to listen to it in the daytime, for fear it would melt away under the coarse and uncaring sunshine.
Wait until starlight, place Vespertine on the platter, and close your eyes.