For all of her much blabbed about "elfin" charm our lady Bjork, now three years removed from the confines of the Sugarcubes, is as much ripened of a musical article as other, more senior, chanteuses (Annie Lennox, Sinead, etc.) are probably viewed. The edge that her Bjork-ness has in her court though is that her ebullience; although it's filtered through motherhood, a second language, and life on non-native terrain, remains wholly undiminished. Mixed up with her fierce confidence, vocally and otherwise, the tonic Bjork's currently packing on Post is far more potent than Courtney's howl therapy could ever hope to be.
Tangible for instances? How about how Bjork sticks a molasses paced verse born out of an almost contrary melody to the heavy, low octave underpinnings of "Army of Me" fashioned by 808 State techno-wizard Graham Massey? While the Led Zep-like drums track kicks underneath, her vocals amble freely on top, seemingly ignorant to what they're treading on. For a moment the two bits appear totally skewed but it's an integral part of her unique vocal chemistry - a topsy turvy approach to construction that makes her so engaging enough to connect across a wide spectrum of listeners.
How wide that array is was evidenced by the crowd that packed Atlanta's Masquerade, one of the cities principal alterna-meccas. Everyone from the quirk ridden to the frat tenant stood in the humidity soaked hall drinking in the groove. Flanked by three musicians, a DJ and a lot of industrial tubing, Bjork crooned her way through most of her material from the new record as well as a fair amount of Debut. Clad in a bright red frock and recently recovered from a flu serious enough to warrant some cancellations in LA, Bjork sang nothing like someone who's been even remotely ill. Watching her go from a from a whisper to a hollar that arched over the entire room in without any noticeable signs of inhaling, is beyond impressive. After a fantastic intro by her oriental accordian player, her touring troupe seemed a little uncertain in spots. But when they arrived at the absolutely beautiful Hyper-Ballad, things jived so well that audience bouncing along made the apparently sturdy wood floor underneath our feet quake and wobble to the point where you were certain something would surely give and we'd all go crashing into the bar below. To this and all other manifestations of appreciation, Bjork would only responded with a simple "Tank choo."
Despite the uncleared samples that may wind up into some serious money grubbing litigation on the part of a relatively unknown UK techno- artist, the stories of vocals put to tape via a long mic lead on a midnight darkened beach, and her obvious inlaid charm, Bjork is no light weight contender. The disparate style gears she switches through (from the forthright techno works of "The Modern Things" to the swing of "It's Oh So Quiet" and off to the epic, strings laced moments in "Isobel") so deftly probably make Madonna a touch anxious. Bjork approximates the ambience and exotic gravity of a modern Astrud Gilberto, who set hipsters on fire with during the Samba binges of the early sixties. Having emblazoned all the positive and interesting aspects of what she's done before and welded together anew, she's pieced together second foundation for her career's history. "Zing boom" indeed.
