Alison Goldfrapp's overtly orgasmic but somehow still precious--a princess in a tower who wants no rescuing, just to get off. On Black Cherry (Mute) she oversensualizes every syllable; whether she's pouting "Touch my garden" or something about a "nasal douche," the underlying message is fuck me. With swelling orchestral movements, throbbing beats, and ecstatic Enya-esque waves of lush analog synthesizer, the album is clearly meant for heavy petting. But it's so manicured and melodramatic it's hard to imagine it doing the trick for anyone besides the patrons of a Sybaris. "Crystalline Green" and "Tiptoe" wind up and bean you; the rest of the record is like Frenching someone really hot, only you're not clicking. Thursday, September 25, 7:30 PM, Park West, 322 W. Armitage; 773-929-5959 or 312-559-1212.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Polly Borland.