Fever Ray – Plunge
by sfe medusa
Plunge is SUPREME.
In it, Karin Dreijer A.K.A Fever Ray errs on the risky side of everything: dancing on hot coals and flimsy rope bridges, running through traffic and juggling iPhones that morph into knives.
The first parts of the album heave with her signature wilderness and aerial views of cliff-scapes, before becoming tainted by a flirt with a corrupted city halfway through, developing into a more controlled and affected discourse.
The first scenes are like an arthouse Michael Bay film set on a factory floor in the middle of a canyon, where giant steel robots talk about alcoholism and hold love ceremonies.
The industrial, repetitive clanking of Musn’t Hurry is overcast by the shadow of a huge, oil-soaked eagle, feathers spread, leaking and leering over a vulture’s dead body.
It is nature functioning in a huge synthesiser, a mechanical system threatened by seismic and earthy forces.
IDK about you features fish-eye vocals on hand-hit-hearts, it’s emotion cut straight from the viscera; hope’s murder scene that only gets muddier and messier, like some abstract equivalent to the body count in Fargo.
The turning point is the album’s namesake song Plunge, which tries to wash its hands of the sodomy of preceding This Country, a song dressed in thigh-high PVC, a face smothered by a flesh nightmare and the reflection of a porn VHS tape in the eye of a child sitting too close to the telly.
Plunge – the song – marks the return to the kind of raw and mystical natural landscape that Dreijer started painting in dun, dark greens and effervescent toxicity, but now it is vulnerable, sounding like the agitated, yearning cry of the maimed deer carcass in Red Trails. Its wounds are then bleached by the dark granular matter that seeps in from An Itch.
Nature feels beaten brutally into submission by the electronics that it once overpowered without question.
That aside, I really hope the lunar reference in the name of To the Moon and Back catches on as a new euphemism for a woman’s private crescent.