"I'm not used to not having enough time to live with the songs. Usually, if I write something, I live with it for a little while"
About this Quote
The line reveals a songwriter who treats compositions like relationships rather than products. Fiona Apple thrives on incubation, letting melodies and words trail her through ordinary days until they settle into a shape that feels inevitable. To live with a song is to test it against mood swings and errands, to see whether its rhythms still fit the body and whether its truth still holds after the initial spark fades. When that time shrinks, the work can feel unmoored from the life it is supposed to reflect.
Apple’s career makes the point. She has always moved at her own pace, leaving long stretches between albums: Tidal, When the Pawn, Extraordinary Machine, The Idler Wheel..., Fetch the Bolt Cutters. Those gaps are not absence but fermentation. Her records sound like diaries written with percussion, full of handclaps, floor thumps, and breaths that have had time to become part of the arrangement. The songs feel argued with, forgiven, reimagined. They arrive with the confidence of something lived-long rather than willed-quick.
Pressure to hurry comes from everywhere: deadlines, tours, collaborators, the streaming economy’s appetite for constant content. Apple’s discomfort hints at what gets lost in that rush. Her writing depends on the slow, sometimes messy process of revision, and on the daily litmus test of whether a lyric still stings or a chord still surprises. Without that gestation, a song might capture a mood but miss the lasting insight beneath it. For an artist whose work is prized for candor and odd, exact rhythms, time is not a luxury; it is the medium.
There is also an ethical edge to her stance. Refusing speed can be a way of protecting authenticity against a marketplace that rewards immediacy over depth. Apple’s songs often feel like rooms she has lived in long enough to rearrange, patch, and claim. Losing that time risks turning rooms into sets. She insists on the slower path where the art and the life breathe together.
Apple’s career makes the point. She has always moved at her own pace, leaving long stretches between albums: Tidal, When the Pawn, Extraordinary Machine, The Idler Wheel..., Fetch the Bolt Cutters. Those gaps are not absence but fermentation. Her records sound like diaries written with percussion, full of handclaps, floor thumps, and breaths that have had time to become part of the arrangement. The songs feel argued with, forgiven, reimagined. They arrive with the confidence of something lived-long rather than willed-quick.
Pressure to hurry comes from everywhere: deadlines, tours, collaborators, the streaming economy’s appetite for constant content. Apple’s discomfort hints at what gets lost in that rush. Her writing depends on the slow, sometimes messy process of revision, and on the daily litmus test of whether a lyric still stings or a chord still surprises. Without that gestation, a song might capture a mood but miss the lasting insight beneath it. For an artist whose work is prized for candor and odd, exact rhythms, time is not a luxury; it is the medium.
There is also an ethical edge to her stance. Refusing speed can be a way of protecting authenticity against a marketplace that rewards immediacy over depth. Apple’s songs often feel like rooms she has lived in long enough to rearrange, patch, and claim. Losing that time risks turning rooms into sets. She insists on the slower path where the art and the life breathe together.
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| Topic | Music |
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