Fiona Apple was wrestling with her dog, Mercy, the way a person might thrash, happily, in rough waves. Apple tugged on a purple toy as Mercy, a pit-bull-boxer mix, gripped it in her jaws, spinning Apple in circles.
Worn out, they flopped onto two daybeds in the living room, in front of a TV that was always on. These days, the singer-songwriter, who is forty-two, rarely leaves her tranquil house, in Venice Beach, other than to take early-morning walks on the beach with Mercy. Still, a lot can go on without leaving home. Amber, a cabaret singer who records under the name Maude Maggart, had brought along her thirteen-month-old baby, Winifred, who scooched across the floor, playing under the piano.
Apple was there when Winifred was born, and, as we talked about the bizarreness of childbirth, Apple told me a joke about a lady who got pregnant with twins. A year went byโstill nothing. Apple, who wore a light-blue oxford shirt and loose beige pants, her hair in a low bun, stood by the piano, coaching Amber, who sat down in a wicker rocking chair, pulling Winifred onto her lap.
Apple, with her singular smoky contralto, modelled the complex emotions of the line for Amber, warming her up to record. Abruptly, Apple bent her knees, poked her elbows back like wings, and swung her hips, peekabooing toward Winifred. The baby laughed. It was simultaneously a rehearsal and a playdate. Her albums are both profoundly personalโtracing her heartaches, her showdowns with her own fragility, and her fierce, phoenix-like recoveriesโand musically audacious, growing wilder and stranger with each round.
The new album, she said, was close to being finished, but, as with the twins from the joke, the due date kept getting pushed back. She was at once excited about these songsโcomposed and recorded at home, with all production decisions under her controlโand apprehensive about some of their subject matter, as well as their raw sound drums, chants, bells. She was also wary of facing public scrutiny again.
