On “Strict Machine” by Goldfrapp
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On “Strict Machine” by Goldfrapp Sam Jowett Four months, fifteen days in. Honeymoon Phase meant to mellow out. Passion ought to neutralize. But how fucking wrong is that. Chrysalis shredding—not just clothes—but those thoughts. True selves emerge. Polyester veneer of politeness is now scraped clean. Goldfrapp The culprit: a single nail, obsidian sharp. Goldfrapp’s satin clad, ebony-gloved fingers. Needle digs into vinyl. You dig into my skin. “Wonderful Electriccccccc.” The lyric “Strict Machine” sashays over the bridge. We saunter past discarded inhibitions. The chorus awaits, an Black Cherry eruption with a single revelation: 04/2003 I’m in love! Mute I’m in love! I’m in love! “Felt Mountain,” their debut, was the bait. But just like us, hints flirted beneath the cabaret instrument gloss. Even masquerades can only hide appearances for so long. A truth awaited. Not to be whispered, but rather gasped aloud. “Strict Machine” dictates: Dressed in white noise. Little else. This is the inverse of a sophomore slump. Former trip-hop ambience is usurped by electroclash riptide. Siren synths draw us closer. Entrapping me to you. Lyrics our parents warned us about. Trent Reznor wishes he could be this lethal. Dance. It does not ask. It demands. Sitting is heresy. Head thrashing, body sweating. This is not some damn waltz. Hands do not clasp in graceful arcs. Rather, bodies meet perpendicular. Entwine inversely. Arms twist. Disorientation until we can’t tell each other apart. You tell me you can tie cherry stems with your tongue. I tell you I can whisper “Black Cherry” nothings into your ear. Mutual smirks. Our talents, shaken together. Add a splash of kick drum. A stir of neon glam. Serve in the heat of the moment. Drink until lightheaded. Dance until giddy without remorse. Make it crescendo until the speaker blisters, until everything else is drowned out. Because this—because you—are the only thing that quenches. 68 .