A Little Voice In My Head

Fever Ray “Seven”

There is a terror at the core of Karin Dreijer Andersson’s music as Fever Ray that is so potent and visceral that I find it difficult to listen to album with any sort of regularity. This is notable, because there was no shortage of darkness and paranoia in the Knife’s Silent Shout record, and that did not keep me from spending much of 2006 playing “We Share Our Mothers’ Health” and “Forest Families” on repeat. The difference between the Knife and Fever Ray is a matter of degree and intensity — whereas the Silent Shout songs allow for space and catharsis, the selections on Fever Ray feel extremely contained and inert, putting the listener in the uncomfortable headspace of a person who seems to be suffering from simultaneous claustrophobia and agoraphobia. Fever Ray is an album of nonspecific dread and domestic restlessness, and even “Seven,” its most pop-oriented song, offers no relief from its relentless unease. Though it starts off as a recollection of connection and friendship, it’s essentially a song about profound loneliness. The lyrics in the chorus allude to a mysterious “box to open up with light and sound,” which seem to hint at her career in art and music, but in context, it comes across more like a horrible curse than a blessing or salvation.

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