She alters the lyrics early, slightly — a small thing, but it unlocks the door. Instead of “I start for the corner, and I might end up in Spain,” it’s “I go to the corner/And I end up in Spain,” and at once you believe it, you see it happening — because it’s screwy Fiona Apple; and because she sounds like Fiona Apple, fragile, strung out, but resigned and defiant, too, sinking into herself beautifully; and because this perfect Fiona Apple song is our song as well, we misfits and key-in-door-leavers. She redeems us. We no longer wish to be redeemed.
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