In the fall, Ryan Adams scheduled a stint of dates in the western part of the country in support of 2011’s critically acclaimed Ashes and Fire. Selected venues were small, quaint rooms and, as a result, tickets were nearly impossible to attain through every-man channels. The day of show, my brother and I decided to visit the venue early to scout the situation and thank god we did. The space was so loose we were able to calmly walk backstage and settle in behind the soundboard. Right then, opening act Jason Isbell, of Drive-by-Truckers fame, was mid-soundcheck tearing through excellent, unfamiliar tunes. As we stood and listened for awhile and marveled in the situation we found ourselves, Ryan Adams walked past with a small entourage and my brother couldn’t help himself. He accosted him. Cover blown, we headed toward the entrance hall and, just at that moment, the box office window rolled open. There were a limited number of tickets available, 7th row center. It turned out to be our very lucky day.

I remember Fiona Apple fondly. I remember her as the spicy-waif sprawled out on that green shag carpet in 1997’s Criminal video. I remember her ungrateful 1994 MTV Music Video Awards acceptance speech when she emphatically insisted the world is bullshit and we (the viewers) should not emulate her and her fellow pop stars, but rather “go with ourselves!” And, perhaps most vividly, I remember magic man David Blaine on Howard Stern’s radio program claiming Fiona likes kinky sex and hard over the knee spankings. It’s hard to believe that, with all these great memories of Fiona Apple, I hadn’t thought about her in years. That is of course until last Tuesday when my wife returned home with her first full length in seven years. The album’s excessively titled The Idler Wheel Is Wiser than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More than Ropes Will Ever Do… and it was worth the wait. Fiona has created something distinct from her previous records but still maintains the compelling characteristics that made us fall in love in the first place. The album is raw, grimy, and simple. Most songs are merely her, the piano, and pots-and-pans percussion. After seven years in hiding, it’s a stripped-down achievement. So move over Regina Spektor, heroin-chic is back and octopus hats are in fashion. All we need now is a new David Blaine Street Magic and the 90s will have returned triumphantly.