Bjork’s voice braids itself with the violin. Her vocal tone is matching and crossing itself, notes meeting each other and overlapping. The voice is like a silk scarf unraveling because someone is pulling her thread slowly, trying to destroy her, belittling her into a tangled mess on the floor and then, nothingness, silence at the end of 3 minutes. Descending scales on an organ pattern the rough grain, no strain of her voice. She continues to twist and bend the pitch, protesting against whoever is unraveling her and trying to re-braid herself. Her breath rides on strings of silver thread.

She says she’s like a ball of yarn, but her voice resonates like a different kind of material, like fingertips across silk or chiffon. She’s missing, needing someone. But there is a sense of clarity or maybe honesty, happiness, power or independence about being unraveled. She’s free.


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