Goldfrapp - Black Cherry
Alison Goldfrapp's new record, Black Cherry, makes me want to lick sweat from the soft valleys of naked skin; it makes me want to devote my mouth and teeth to crushing and pulping fruit into thick, heavy syrup. From the opening swells of "Crystalline Green" to the final instrumental ode of "Slippage," Black Cherry captures me in an intoxicating dreamscape of sleek, shining Continental sex.
Alison Goldfrapp first met Will Gregory shortly before the turn of the century and they built Felt Mountain, a swirling orchestral collection of mood music, shot through with the distilled essence of Ennio Morricone and a whiff of disco's infatuation with the diva voice. Black Cherry, their second record together using Alison's surname as the name of the band, comes to the big city. The orchestration, while indelibly present in several of the tracks (notably the title track), becomes subsumed beneath sizzling synthesized melodies.
Recorded in a stark studio in Bath -- dark walls lit only by the luminal glow of neon -- Black Cherry slinks and pulsates with the human-made rhythm of the city. The synthetic burble and hiss which swells and snakes through "Tiptoe" is a time-lapse record of a swollen city at night: the arterial race of lights down major thoroughfares, the false light of neon signs and mercury vapor street lights, the heady tick-tock of people moving on the dark streets looking to make connections with one another. The first single, "Train," is a chrome locomotive of the 21st century, a bullet train thrusting on an uninterrupted course between the hearts of two cities.
"Deep Honey" is the sort of orchestral pop song which Björk and David Arnold will wish they had written. A nod to the pastoral work of Felt Mountain, "Deep Honey" (and the following "Hairy Trees" for that matter), ably mix electronic elements with strings and woodwinds. On this rich and textured bed of instrumentation, Alison's voice is a hypnotic suggestion which passes right through the pores of your skin and takes up residence in the pleasure centers of your brain.
And then there is the dizzying adolescent fantasy of "Twist." "Ride me, try me, kiss me like u like me, twist it around again and again." The candyfloss stickiness of her voice coupled with a generator buzz and a driving synthesizer melody is enough to make a boy stand up and shout in concert with her, "I want to run away with you." As long as you can make her smile and stretch with feline grace, you are welcome "between my legs and knicker lace."
There is an dizzying intoxication to a redolent piece of ripe fruit. Freshly washed and cupped in your hand, your mouth waters in anticipation of tasting it. Your teeth pierce the skin and your mouth fills with the sweet rush of juice. And, in an instant, your head fills with a sense of the natural world, a heady rush of clean air, the scent of flowers erupting in bloom, and the delicate caress of an innocent wind. And then your heart starts, a heavy hammering which fills your head and your lungs, as the fruit slides down your throat and climaxes in your stomach. There is nothing that transforms your world into a singular moment of sensual, joyous heaven like a piece of perfectly ripe fruit. Goldfrapp's Black Cherry is such a piece of fruit.
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