FKA Twigs is a born winner, the picture of unrestrained opulence – being told you’re beautiful from the very beginning and believing ever word of it without questioning what it actually means to be beautiful. She’s a dancer, a producer, a singer, a person who will go on air and talk about how her successful dancing career was just a side gig she did in relation to her true love, music, a side project that some people spend their entire lives trying to understand and appreciate. She didn’t mean for it to come off that way, the answer was in response to a leading question, which was how she got started. But that little morsel of true unscripted self speaks volumes and can be found all over LP1.
Her voice is unusual. It has range, but she seldom shows it. Half the time it sounds like someone is plunging a samurai sword into her stomach and all she can muster are these meager little breaths. In feudal Japan that may have worked, but here in this context, not so much – not for the discerning ear who recognizes the difference between juvenile heartache and tragedy. It sounds fake and feels like linoleum, a soulless void that hangs its hat on minimalism to avoid making any sort of real commitment. There’s so much promise in a voice as sweet as hers. It’s just a stain when the sound coming out of it is narcissistic and spoiled, the sound a mirror makes when it’s been stared into for too long.
Just a tiny dew drop of a voice with enough in it to squeak out a line from Sir Thomas Wyatt’s “I Find No Peace.” It’s regal, dramatic and obnoxious in that it’s coated in enough plastic emotion to make even Joan Rivers cringe. Get past the gibberish and it’s clear that she’s nothing but a nihilist:
Minimal, intimate and whack – a real gooey soap opera that makes running through a minefield seem like a stroll in the park. The lyrics aren’t as abstract as all the sonic twitching going on, which makes it even easier to decipher what’s actually happening – the forgoing of substance for gaudy style:
Singing one note at a time is like watching that guy get shot in the belly with a cannonball. It’s mesmerizing at first, but in the end meaningless. This is a garish striptease that shows us that underneath all the lavishness is nothing more than a self-serving wood nymph who thinks swearing is edgy:
Hours, maybe even days between notes. May as well be an eternity. She’s scammin’ her way to the top, not caring who she fools along the way. In other words, she’s taking waterlogged lyrics and adding needlessly dramatic pauses to say things she just doesn’t have the ability to say. The broken beats adding zilch:
False modesty raining in from all directions. The theme, much like a pendulum, swinging back and forth between being open and vulnerable to cryptic and symbolic. All the pieces fall into place, but the voice contains that bitter artificial touch that anyone who’s tasted real heartache would recognize:
Cry me a river. A real snotty way to look at your success as if people should feel your pain for, being so awesome? The truth is she has a beautiful voice, it’s just that she’s saying some incredibly shallow things. But that’s the name of the game when a mainstream mole works its way to the underground:
Imagine the lamest fashion show you can think of, the type of place where everyone is taking themselves way too seriously and the brightest color in the room is black. This is the song that’ll be playing. No matter how she tries to doll it up the constant bellyaching is simply too much to bear:
Middle Earth opens up revealing a small gnome like creature who loves nothing more than to gobble up your time with her silver tongue. The beat is basically the sound a coil spring makes when you jump on it, which is just the platform she needs to indulge in some stale drama. Closer is right, to her own image:
There are moments where desperation is the main theme, and that’s where she sounds most at home. Desperate for attention, desperate for fame or just fascinated by he feelings that render a person weak, either way it’s her bread and butter and worth her time to explore. At least more than she does here:
If you ever wanted to know what the devil’s voice sounds like or what narrative is running through the Olsen’s twins’ minds then look no further. Same M.O. as before right down to the lyrical motif, a self-soothing exhibition that borders on masturbation. Ten songs never sounded so long: