Fever Ray

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Territory: North America & Europe

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Tom Windish

Crispin Hearn

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Fever Ray

about the artist

First I'd like to say that I'm sorry. The radical romantic gets apologies over with. They have a body and it has been broken. They have desire and in the depth of their heart believe desire can fix a body. Desire fixes someone in their mind. It makes a place for them, after the plunge. To begin again, Fever Ray built a new studio. They watch the sky in there. They want a love album.

They must open up again. A finger on a screen, swipes. Fingers on a body. The radical romantic uses synths as lubrication. Their rhythm makes…

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First I'd like to say that I'm sorry. The radical romantic gets apologies over with. They have a body and it has been broken. They have desire and in the depth of their heart believe desire can fix a body. Desire fixes someone in their mind. It makes a place for them, after the plunge. To begin again, Fever Ray built a new studio. They watch the sky in there. They want a love album.

They must open up again. A finger on a screen, swipes. Fingers on a body. The radical romantic uses synths as lubrication. Their rhythm makes it good to fuck. Can I trust you? I just wanna shiver. Sex works. But love flows best through brain folds. They have to think hard when they don't want to think. But you need to reset.

Make a list. What's in the bag of a radical romantic? Testosterone and estrogen, PreP and tampons and poppers and Z-Pack and a charger, a bottle of water and something wrapped in foil, a wig and a lipstick, a palette and a pen. A mouthful of words. An accounting of weapons and skills. They take stock of their body, it's a backpack of love and violence. They know what they have. They'll learn what they need — that's the scary part.

A new sounding instrument. If used correctly, finger cymbals are sigils. The metal rings kiss and slip into the ear, and that's where the magic happens. For a horn, the end of a tongue contacts the reed and it prickles. These are the old ways made different today. Love makes you its instrument. Lust will only play you. At night, the old shimmy and the shake comes back into their memory. They wrestle with it, can taste the sound of it. All girls want Kandy.

What do they even mean by love? They read that love is verbal, it's made of words but also acts. They age and reproduce and watch their kids grow vulnerable. From birth, love can be fatal. Parents die in childbirth; teens take their lives in their hands to hold onto each other; adulthood begins with a 'till death do us part. What are the limits of radical romance? What if the opening parenthood creates in the body, a swelling of the heart so huge another person can keep safe in it, becomes a portal for something worse. There's no room for you. And we know where you live.

When they were their age, they didn't think sexuality was even containable. We don't come with a manual. The old fears rattled around in their head until the pitter-patter formed a pattern. In the studio, looking at the sky, Fever Ray called in the other radical romantics. Old scraps of melody from their parents' records, texts from the writers who said what they thought. Is this thought true? Can I come too? Musicians came in through the wires, they worked virtually. Looking for a person…let's go now.

Out on the floor. Whoo! Dancing burns neural pathways towards love, the entirety of human history beats in acid disco. All bodies do is detoxify and intoxicate. Wish me courage, strength, and a sense of humor. These are love sensations. Strokes and strobes and bass getting heavy. The queer ancestors shake their tail feathers, they gather and make their dances in a radical romance, subsonic frequencies offering release in deadly seriousness, holding my heart while falling

and falling and falling and falling in love and acting from their core, important and earnest. They don't care if they look ridiculous. They look ridiculous in the mirror for each other, messy and fabulous. They dare to show themselves. Radical romance says no to borders and yes to boundaries. I'm calling sex: north. Their body is a map and also a compass. They sing ballads sad enough to make each other cry out in joy. They drop basslines like base camps to know where they're coming from.

They have attachment wounds. A radical romantic knows how to pick them. Tapping fingers as a way to speak. A bit of pink noise on the melody to make things clear. It's a struggle. Better than sleeping though. In a dawn, they say no thank you to people that do taste good but don't do well. They make a safe space inside themselves and that space has room for two, or more, it's a calm invitation to connect on new terms. It's coming.

An afterglow, an everglow. A bubble, an egg, a burst from a larynx. Air from the voice box passes from mouth into ear. Fever Ray looks out from the new studio. The sea is a mouth breathing into the sky — that's a radical romance. From the bottom of the sea bursts a lonely bit of beauty. It's loud, in earnest. They love.

Written by Jesse Dorris

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