Reality Bites

As for being thrown into the lion’s den of expectations (when Tidal first swept onto record shelves, names like “Billie Holiday” and “Nina Simone” were being casually tossed around), Apple knows it’s not simply a matter of finding your one true self.

“I never considered what people’s expectations of me were—that’s one thing that’s always been easier because I feel like I’ve been myself all this time,” she says with a shrug. “But the thing that does make it all hard is being thrown into public life. The thing that makes me unhappy—it’s almost embarrassing for me to admit—I cannot look at myself anymore.” Now it’s back to the whisper. “I sit there and get makeup done and look at myself in the mirror and I’m just not someone who wants to do that. And it really makes me have to think about how much I really don’t like myself sometimes.”

Before we get to spouting off about how the rumors of Apple’s newly discovered stability have been greatly exaggerated, let’s allow the smoke to clear.

“The more I have to do this stuff [the whole promotional blitzkrieg ordeal: photo shoots, in-stores, writers looking for that soul-of-the-artist scoop], the more I have to examine myself. And then I start thinking, ‘What am I doing outside of my house?’ I have these private moments with myself in the dressing room, like, ‘What are you doing in this dress?’ Like, ‘This is ridiculous—I just want to be under the covers with the remote control.’” She follows this up with an important disclaimer: “But it’s always been like this—even before the anxiety attacks. That’s what makes it all a struggle for me.”

In other words, the difficulty lies in relinquishing those homey pleasures Fiona once took for granted. Homey because Apple is, well, a bit of a homebody. During her time away from the studio—which, since she’s only released three (official) albums in all, has to be quite a bit—Apple moseys around her home in Venice Beach (though, like most tough customers, Apple’s originally from New York), playing with her dog, watching television, doing anything she can to avoid having to write music. She also takes long walks because that’s what people with a lot on their minds do. And Apple’s definitely someone who’s always had a lot on her mind.

“The only thing that’s really difficult is when I make myself unhappy,” she says with the conviction of a Bible salesman. “In general, I’m a person who makes things more difficult than they need to be.” She might be referring to any number of things—her infamous Maya Angelou-inspired “this world is bullshit” speech at the MTV Video Music Awards in 1997, which elicited cheers and scorn in equal doses; her meltdowns during performances and interviews alike; perhaps her former relationship with director Paul Thomas Anderson, who matched Apple’s sullenness with showy eccentricity.

All of which should come as little surprise for those of us who’re champing at the bit to toss Apple into the “tortured artist” bin. Except why is it that when life hands Fiona lemons, she makes, um, apple juice? “I’m a very hopeful person; I think I’m actually an optimist,” she says haltingly, and then waits to see what kind of reaction she’s provoked. “But I think it takes me a long time to get there. Because I dramatize everything. And I don’t like that about myself because I just end up feeling silly about it.”

Simply put, what Apple wants, in the immortal words of Mary J. Blige, is no more drama. Which, of course, is easier said than done. Apple’s previous efforts—Tidal and the unfortunately 90-word-titled When The Pawn…—were earmarked by her desire to be seen and heard, but with only half the brazenness required for either. Tidal suffered from the familiar “too much style, not enough substance” ailment; only a handful of the songs, such as “Shadowboxer,” “Sleep to Dream” and the aforementioned “Criminal” hint at a songwriter able to sustain the valleys in equal measure with the peaks. When The Pawn…—though leaps and bounds ahead of its predecessor, thanks to everyone’s favorite mom-and-pop composer Jon Brion—possessed too much substance: the gnarled semantics (“My derring-do allows me to dance the rigadoon around you”) always on the verge of sensory overload.

Extraordinary Machine, on the other hand, was built to last. Partly because it’s been, ahem, well-oiled (first, by Jon Brion, then by perennial Dr. Dre sidekick Mike Elizondo), but mostly because Apple—its chief architect—is operating on a whole other plane.

“I think that this album is less of me writing to one person in particular, trying to get my point across to them desperately and more of me writing to myself,” she says, not really caring whether the words “Paul Thomas Anderson” pop off in my head. “I still have songs that I’ve written for specific people to hear, about how I feel, but it’s not so desperate. [An extraordinarily long pause.] All the songs that I’ve written on this album, I’ve spent so much more time by myself. They’re more for my benefit than anybody else’s.”