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Fiona Apple  

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Fiona Apple is a singer and songwriter hailing from New York City, New York, USA who was born on September 13th, 1977. Since her debut in 1994 she has released four studio albums and become one of the most acclaimed songwriters of her generation.

A classically trained pianist from a very early age, Fiona Apple began composing her own music at the age of 8, and before long she was writing her own songs. She poured her traumatic teenage years into her song-writing and by the time she was seventeen she'd made her first demo tape. When she heard that a friend of hers was babysitting for the music publicist Kathryn Schenker, she gave that demo tape to her friend to give to Schenker. Against all probability, Schenker was so impressed with what she heard that she passed it along to Andy Slater, an executive at Sony Music, who signed her to Columbia Records within months of her making the tape. Wisely, Apple spent the next two years honing her craft before releasing anything, and it's safe to say that the move paid off, as her debut album “Tidal”, was certified three times Platinum mere months after its release in July 1996.

Despite having the kind of record sales that most bands would kill for, the kind of mainstream success that fell into Apple's lap made her deeply uncomfortable. She wouldn't release another album until 1999 with “When The Pawn...”, an album whose title went straight into the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest album title ever (seriously, Google it). While the album was still a huge, Platinum certified hit, it didn't equal the success of “Tidal” and Apple was still reacting very badly to the public spotlight, culminating with an on-stage meltdown in New York City's Roseland Ballroom in February 2000. After finishing her touring commitments for the year, Apple moved from New York to Los Angeles, and spent the next two years on hiatus, which suited her so much that she had to be begged into make a new album by her longtime friend and producer Jon Brion.

She finally acquiesced and released her third album “Extraordinary Machine” in 2005. Ever since then, she's remained an artist in the truest sense of the word, never one to be hurried or have her artistic vision clouded by anyone else's input. With four stellar albums to her name and the kind of live show that any solo artist would kill for, Fiona Apple comes highly recommended.

Live reviews

Fiona Apple is one of the most intriguing and thought-provoking singer-songwriters about today. Apple couples probing lyrics, drawing upon themes of disillusionment, low self-esteem and psychological angst, with a musical combination of jazz and alt rock to create evocative work. Add in her animated personality, and you get one impressive gig.

In October 2013 Apple retuned to her home, New York City, to play the Beacon Theatre. Performing alongside guitarist and singer-songwriter Blake Mills, and supported by Sebastian Steinberg, on bass fiddle, and Barbara Gruska, on drums, Fiona Apple provided a superbly challenging show. As soon as the quartet appeared on stage the expectant audience hushed, ready to be transported through Apple’s emotional tumults and through the more troublesome corners of their own minds.

The audience listened appreciatively as Fiona described the ‘fight with her brain’ that she experiences ‘Every Single Night.’ They absorbed the tension created my maudlin lyrics and plucky strings. Though the evening was not all angst. In between songs Apple exchanged comfortable rapport with Mills. At one point Fiona giggled as she fluffed a joke, which she only told after much persuasion from Blake. The audience laughed along. Indeed, the crowd was not excluded from any positivity, and fans could be heard shouting, ‘you’re beautiful’ in support of the performer.

Fiona Apple’s performance at the Beacon was challenging and beautiful. I left in a reflective daze. If you get the chance, experience one of her gigs first hand.

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She is amazing. Even when shes more reclusive. My all time

fave female artist. No cellphones were allowed and I found rhat awesome. I'd do the same. Really makes the vibe more connected with out all the cell phone usage.

She ended abruptly it seemed or I missed it so dont venture tpo long out doors. No one opened. And her tiffs on stage I appreciate.

Any person who was silenced after being so successful amd reaching so many is a goddess. With poise patience and dignity.

hank the folks who made her album get de shelved.

She should never edit her completed work for anyone.

One day I dream of collabing.

Go see her. She's everything. ♡

The Watkins Family Hour concert was amazing. I was not sure what to except but they were all so talented and masters of their craft. Seeing Fiona has always been on my bucket list (although I hate the term) and although it was her in a group she still shined and was great to see her in this element. Hope I get to see them again!

Gorgeous, melancholy, sexy gremlin goddess extraordinaire! Pure magick. My only criticism is that I wish she would have sang a few more songs. Still, it was incredible to get to see such a successful and talented artist at such a small venue as Largo. I'll definitely be back for more soon! :)

She is one of the best song writers that I have ever witnessed. There are thoughts between the words. She is probably a genius. Her reflections cover many disciplines in history, scienceand philosophy. I just love her. Period.

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• Fiona Apple (707)
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• Los Angeles (LA) (28)
• New York (NYC) (14)
• Philadelphia (11)
• SF Bay Area (10)
• Chicago (9)

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• Blake Mills (21)
• Coldplay (20)
• Nickel Creek (12)
• Damien Rice (9)
• David Garza (7)

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Fiona Apple on How She Broke Free and Made the Album of the Year

By Jenn Pelly

Photography by Irina Rozovsky

There is a radical openness to Fiona Apple ’s fifth album, Fetch the Bolt Cutters —in its fevered and physical compositions, in the forthright candor of its stories, in its rhythms so tapped into the pulsations of the world around her. And that rare attunement extends to her everyday life.

On a Saturday afternoon in late October, she was at a horse farm in Alabama, playing her ashiko drum in synchronicity with the birds in the sky. She texted over a video of her impromptu performance with commentary: “I drum with the birds in the trees/I know that time is elastic!” she wrote, a play on the lyrics to Fetch the Bolt Cutters opener “I Want You to Love Me.” But Fiona was also illuminating the evermore expansive way she has come to think about her own music 24 years into a singular career: in relation to her natural environment, to animals, open to chance.

Once, during 1999’s “ Paper Bag ,” she sang slyly of wishing on the illusion of a bird above, of hungering for love that she didn’t believe she deserved. But here was Fiona in 2020, communing with her avian audience in the context of a song where she unequivocally states her desire (“I want somebody to want and I want what I want and I want you”—five wants) for the love she knows she’s earned. All over Fetch the Bolt Cutters , the 43-year-old excavates past traumas—from the callousness of grown men to the cruelty of lunchroom bullies—with the uncontainable sound of growth in process.

She has spent the fall at the Alabama farm, home to the sister of her roommate and best friend, Zelda Hallman. Most mornings, Fiona and her beloved boxer pitbull Mercy wake up before dawn and take long walks to the nearby trees and stream. Fiona’s reputation has always been one of a voluntary self-isolator, but she likes to start each day touching water as a way of acknowledging her connection to everyone and everything.

Aside from the occasional tour or trip, Fiona said the farm was the furthest she’d ventured from her Venice Beach, California home in 20 years. She and Zelda made the journey in a minivan and brought along some of Fiona’s home-recording gear (her computer, microphone, drum). She had been working on a cover, and had also been experimenting there with ad hoc percussion: a washed out paint can she found on a walk, and some pine needles, which she tied into brushes using a piece of a dog toy. “They make a much bigger sound depending on what you hit them with,” she explained regarding her collaboration with the trees.

We had begun a series of interviews about Fetch the Bolt Cutters in late June, with subsequent FaceTime conversations and text correspondence through the rest of the year. Fiona also sent a stream of photos from her phone, including a scan of her brain, hummingbirds she “watched grow up,” and a series of petroglyphs she spotted while hiking in Topanga Canyon that sparked the land acknowledgment , on Fetch the Bolt Cutters ’ back cover, that it was “Made on unceded Tongva, Mescalero Apache, and Suma territories.” She said the photos offered more than she had communicated in interviews: “This is the time I spend alone.”

I quickly learned of another way she spends her time alone: online. Contrary to public perception, Fiona is not technology-averse. She just happens to spend most of her screen time on an out-of-step platform—Tumblr—that has experienced a mass exodus in recent years. She said she loves Tumblr for its secret-world-building possibilities. One day in September, she was scrolling her feed of art and animal photos and posts from mental health communities when she came across the explosive music of 79-year-old avant-garde jazz hero and herbalist Milford Graves , who’s spent decades using cardiovascular equipment to record and study human heartbeats. “I feel like I’ve been searching for this man my whole life,” she said.

It’s Fiona’s intimate alignment with her own heart that makes her writing so transcendent still. This preternatural sensitivity is always awake inside her. “I’m really, really sensitive, and it’s not easy,” she said. “I’m a person who does not have a thick skin. And I don’t think I really want a thick skin. I don’t want to grow a callus all over myself. I don’t feel like I would be able to make anything that I would love if I did that.”

In between our FaceTime interviews, Fiona continued to share stories. Echoing Fetch the Bolt Cutters’ inquiries into childhood memory, she described scenes from youth, like the play she wrote, at age 11, based on Patsy Cline’s teardrop country tune “Seven Lonely Days,” and the tale of her first kiss, in ninth grade, with a poetic boy named Eddie, who later helped inspire her early hits “Shadowboxer” and “Criminal.” She sent a photo of four notebooks filled with journal entries from the late 1990s, which she thought she had lost (“I’m so glad I’m 43 and not 22!” she said after glancing in one). She texted a video of the actress Melba Moore singing “ I Got Love ” in the 1981 TV adaptation of the musical Purlie , which her father acted in, and she said watching Moore in rehearsals was one of her earliest memories.

The past and present formed a boundless collage, as they do on Fetch the Bolt Cutters —and she sent photos and videos from the album’s sessions, too. Scraps of paper contained song notes (“Keeping mistakes?”) and the beginnings of lyrics. Footage showed her working out drum parts at home under the glow of stringed lights; a photo found her learning to record on her laptop. There was an appealingly unmediated quality to it all. One video showed how, when the band Fiona assembled for the album—drummer and co-producer Amy Aileen Wood , guitarist David Garza , and bassist Sebastian Steinberg —were first convening, in 2016, to improvise at her home, they would instrumentally “score” the motions of their crew of dogs. In one pencil-sketched chart, the names of songs visually swirled together; a section of notes on “I Want You to Love Me” contained a series of eight arrows pointing up and off the corner of the page, as if bursting the song beyond its edge. In a diary entry dated July 10, 2016, before playing a show in Texas, she wrote, “I chose the right people. I chose the band,” and then commented on the necessity of busting out of her solitary comfort zone: “This is what life is—doing things.”

Stepping out into the world (virtually, at least) in 2020, she has lent her voice to a We Have Rights video campaign on how to document ICE arrests, and recently joined an event with prisoner rights initiative Gasping for Justice , during which she recited a sworn statement from an inmate in Maryland with COVID-19. The question that most animates her right now, she said, is: “Am I being helpful?”

Fiona said starting a band had encouraged her to engage with people more after decades in self-appointed quarantine, and she stressed that Fetch the Bolt Cutters is the result of the deep, active collaborations she’s fostered with her bandmates. But like the album’s spirit of controlled chaos, her negotiations between solitude and collaboration are not cleanly resolved. Nor did conversation with her ever feel calculating or neatly tied. Like her songs, it felt charged by an uncommon generosity, full of honesty and abandon.

Fiona Apple: The other word you could use for it is: “aliveness.” I didn’t really have a choice in not putting in messy stuff. I struggle a lot with feeling like I’m not a real musician. I know a lot of musicians, and they’re all music heads. I don’t know a lot about music. I don’t know how to play my instruments very well, honestly. I’m not putting myself down. I can play my own stuff, but I’m not someone you can bring into a studio, like, “Hey, can you play on this?”

I was trying to learn how to be a better musician while making this record. I was recording myself trying. I wasn’t practicing and then recording—I was recording myself while I was trying to get it right. But I liked the way it sounded when I was trying. It felt like a real documentation of what was going on. It felt more honest. And beyond that, I cannot achieve perfection. I just can’t.

I got down on myself a lot, thinking, Everybody’s going to think this sounds stupid! But it came down to: What are you going to do? This is you. This is what you can do. This is the kind of music you can make. And that’s great. The most important thing is that I’m not trying to be anybody other than myself. And this is what I sound like.

My relationship to my voice has changed so much since I was a kid. When I was younger I felt like I wasn’t a singer, so on everything that I sang, I hoped my vocals sounded really beautiful. Now I’m not so worried. I have fun with my voice now. I feel like I have something now that I always wanted, which is that I would see old people who were singers singing, and they wouldn’t feel stressed and they weren’t trying to sound good. It was just, “I’m going to sing, and what comes out is my voice.” I don’t feel like I’m such a great singer, like a beautiful voice, but I feel like I’m good at playing my voice. It’s just another instrument now. But it’s the best instrument. It makes so many noises.

There was this game I used to play when I was a kid at the breakfast table where I would pretend to take my voice box out and put it in a jar. And then I’d pretend to put a different voice box in and I’d talk or sing in another voice. I’ve always liked playing with my voice—experimenting with speaking from the back of my throat, to the front of my throat, to whining and nasal, and chest and head voice, trying to make sounds in different ways. It’s much like how my dog gets into doing different voices: She’ll bark and she’ll discover that she can bark really high, and then she’ll start doing it over and over again. You can tell that she’s just enjoying herself because she’s not doing it at anything.

When I do background vocals, I never plan what I’m going to sing. I just press record and sing along. It all comes from improvisation, and then I take out the parts that don’t work. At the end of “For Her,” there was some kind of endurance test that I was acting out. I was sweating and shaking while I was doing those vocals, as though I were getting rid of toxins inside me.

It was probably a reaction to a mistake. I knew I wanted to start speeding up at the end of the song, but my fingers started to slip, and it was falling apart. I make very, very strange sounds without meaning to if I think about things that embarrass me, which is very often. They’re not pretty sounds. So I think that was sort of a musical extension of “I fucked up.”

But the other day I was thinking about my sister’s dead dog, Ada, and I realized I am absolutely doing an impression of Ada at the end of that song. Whenever my sister was away and then she’d come back, Ada would get so excited that she would go [ high-pitched yelp ]. And I used to do that all the time when I’d see my sister, as in, “I’m excited to see you.” So maybe it was subconscious: “You’re back. I love you.” Because I never made that sound other than imitating Ada.

At least since the last album, [2012’s The Idler Wheel… ], I haven’t had to ask anybody’s permission for anything. I just sat in my house, thought a lot, made plans. And it feels really good. Even the interviews that I’ve done: None were set up through a publicist—I don’t have a publicist. When my first album came out, I would spend nine hours at some long table with a pitcher of water and people would be coming in, one after the other, and photo shoots were also nine hours long. I would never be able to do that again. I didn’t have to do even one one-hundredth of that this time. I’m not doing anything that I don’t want to do.

With this record—I haven’t looked at stuff, but I know it was received well. Knowing that, and knowing how many fuck ups there are, and how imperfect everything is on it—I feel like I’m in a good relationship with the world. I feel like I showed up for a date with no makeup on, like I banged my head and I lost my tooth and I showed up bloody and wearing half a T-shirt and one sock, and my date went, “Hey, I like you, come on let’s go. That’s OK with me.” Which is a great feeling. I’ll still kick myself for not being the kind of musician that I think is the cool way to be a musician. But I like that I finally went: “I’m me. I’m going to accept what I am and try to make something good out of that.” I’m proud of myself for getting to a place where I could say: “don’t wait until you’re perfect.”

So much of not just this album, but the inside of my mind, is about: Who I am now compared to who I was in elementary school? How much of the goodness did I keep, and how much of the goodness did I lose? How can I get it back? What did I learn back then that I wish I didn’t learn? What did I learn back then that I need to hold onto? Shameika telling me I had potential was this moment in a day that just pierced through.

Everything I write in that song is true—is literal, actually. I crack up thinking, Does anybody wonder what I’m talking about ? “Slapping my leg with a riding crop” ? I took horseback riding lessons, but even when I wasn’t riding, I would take the riding crop with me when I walked to school. This is horrible, but I remember being a kid and wearing a skirt uniform, and when the wind would blow our skirts up, the doormen would be like [ laughs suggestively ]. So I started walking to school with my riding crop, and if they would say anything to me, I would just look ’em in the eye and slap my leg with my riding crop and just keep on walking. I wanted to look tough.

I’ve always been pretty feisty. I’m really short and small and I felt vulnerable a lot. So I was going to make sure that I also cultivated a toughness in me. I used to get so frustrated because, when you’re little and you’re tough, people go, [ condescendingly ] “Oh, you’re a tough little cutie.” When I was a kid, if you pinched my cheek, I would slap your face. I hated being treated like a child even when I was a child.

Again, literal. Hurricane Gloria was my bird. She was a little parakeet, and I named her Gloria the Hurricane Pilot because I got her around the time of Hurricane Gloria in New York. And we had a ficus tree in my house that my mom named Excelsis Deo so that when we let Gloria fly around, she would land in Excelsis Deo. And we could say, “It’s Gloria in Excelsis Deo!”

It was funny to me: “That’s my bird in my tree!” Gloria died when I was in Las Vegas visiting my dad. I was just a little kid. I remember my mom called to talk to us, and I knew it. I said: “Gloria is dead.” And it was true.

Like many things on the album, that was something that I improvised because the mic was still on. I’m not exaggerating when I say that every single time I had to press the button on the computer to record, I was shaking. Just by myself. No matter how many times I did it. So I tried not to do it. If I could just keep it recording for a while, then I would start to feel comfortable, like, “Maybe if I start singing, it’ll turn into something.”

At the end of “Relay,” I just started to say what was on my mind. Then I stopped because I thought I had fucked up—I was like, “ Going up to the Ferris wheel to throw your anger out the door —that doesn’t make sense,” so I just stopped. But that line is true. Around the time of recording Extraordinary Machine , I used to get up every morning and walk to the Santa Monica Pier, which is like two and a half miles away, to be first in line on the Ferris wheel. And I’d go on by myself. When I got up to the top I’d try and take all the anger that I had about shit and just get rid of it. And I’d try to somehow take something good instead and put it in me, and then go back down the Ferris wheel. And then go home. I used to do that every day until they stopped letting you ride on the Ferris wheel by yourself.

Yeah. Nobody was there, but they were like, “There needs to be more than one person in the car.” I was like, “I’m not going to do this now. I don’t want to sit in there with that guy.”

It’s the feeling like you’re accepted into something, and you’re included, and you’re wanted there, and you have something to contribute, and you make things better by being there. I mean, anybody would want to feel that way. I can’t imagine anybody being like, “I don’t want to be in a band.” It felt lonely to not be in a band. Everybody I know is in a bunch of different bands, and I wasn’t in any. It makes you feel like you’ve got a family. My band now are the immediate family I made. Instead of having sons and daughters or a husband, I’ve got my hus-band: Sebastian’s my hus-band because he’s always playing with me no matter who I’m playing with.

I trust the people in my band more than I trust most people. I trust them musically. I trust them with my heart. I trust them with my secrets. They’re genuinely kind, glowing people. They mean everything to me. I feel really safe being in a band with them because I can make mistakes and I don’t have to worry about feeling like a fool. I don’t have to worry about them making fun of anything I say or do, or even being sarcastic. I needed to feel some kind of unshakability within my own feelings of vulnerability.

When we’re improvising and playing to each other, it feels like responding to tiny, tiny stimuli, and you can feel what somebody else is feeling. As opposed to just playing a part, everybody is listening to everybody else and trying to say what they’re saying at the same time. For me, it’s a way of taking the pressure of conventional band-dom out of it so that we can just enjoy each other and do fucking music and have there not be a right answer or a wrong answer, or “this doesn’t belong here” or “that doesn’t belong there.” No, everything belongs here because I belong here.

In every other area of life, I have trouble with decisions and trouble with how I feel. But with music, I feel like I always know my path. As long as it feels like me, I’m good. I think I have pretty fucking good intuition.

[ to her dog Mercy ] Hi baby. [ Mercy licks Fiona’s face ] She loves my peppermint lip stuff and can’t get enough.

[ to Mercy ] Mercy? How do you stay in touch with your intuition? I don’t know if Mercy should trust her intuition because her intuition always tells her that every other dog has better food than her and that every cat is going to kill her and that every horse is trying to get my attention away from her. She just has to bark at everybody.

I know I’ve fallen out of touch with my intuition plenty of times. I know that being fucked up all the time doesn’t help you with your intuition. I always try to ask myself: Do I believe this? I try to locate this place way deep at the bottom of me and see if it pings when I ask it. I guess that’s trusting your gut.

I remember being told: “When there is agitation, look where there is no agitation.” So if you have agitation inside, then go and look at a tree. It’s not agitated. It’s doing what it needs to do. Go and watch the ants work when they’re gathering crumbs. Just look at something that’s working and let it ground you.

I have this thing sometimes where Mercy talks to me. She’ll come up to me and start kissing me and she’ll be looking me in the eye, and I’ll look at her and try to imagine what she’s saying. And sometimes it just flows out. I’ll be like, “Zelda, do you know what Mercy just told me? She told me that I’ve been worrying about this thing for way too long. And that’s why I have such a strain on this and that.” I know that I said it, but it only comes to me through her eyes.

Meditation is about letting things arise and fall away again—and not judging the thoughts that are in your mind, but just letting them go by. This was a huge deal for me when I first started meditating. OCD has different manifestations in everybody, but for me at the time, it was a lot of invasive thoughts. You keep on thinking the same things over and over, and they’re bad things. You think it’s what you’re made of. You think you’re making a choice to think those things, and you feel guilty for thinking about them over and over again: Why can’t I get past these thoughts ? But it’s like a vinyl record—you’ve gone around these thoughts so many times that it’s made this groove. And it’s so hard not to identify yourself with all the nasty things in your brain. You end up running away from things, or a lot of drinking or drugs to try to numb memories or feelings. And then underneath it all, the same groove is still going over and over.

When you’re in that [meditative] space of just observing yourself and observing things as nonjudgmentally as you can, you feel more capable of handling it all, more capable of sorting it all out. And I think that definitely helps with understanding yourself and with communicating, and so therefore with songwriting.

It also taught me to appreciate tiny things, to really see music and rhythm. I’m looking outside right now and there are little berries on this tree that have a little shine on them. Lots of people now are saying they’ve got synesthesia. I have heard the theory that it’s because when you’re just forming, all of your senses are wrapped up together. When you start to develop, the wires separate, but for some people they never get separated. So in some sense, I feel like being able to appreciate the beauty and the multifacetedness of any tiny, simple thing weaves everything back together for me. It feels like understanding. It’s very peaceful.

I’m convinced that there is a metaphor for everything in nature. You can depend on how things work in nature. And strawberries and peas and beans all sound very uplifting and positive. “Heavy Balloon” is describing the sadness, the depression, but then don’t forget: Even when it looks like I’m down and nothing’s happening and nothing’s growing, I am growing. It might take some time, but I’m growing. Maybe you can’t see it, but it’s happening.

I don’t have a huge relationship to poetry, but when I come across poetry that gets me, it gets me, and I love the idea of a poem, of all of the power that can go into a space between two words or a repetition of one word, these tiny things that can mean so much and feel so huge. My singing self was born out of singing Maya Angelou poems to myself at night going to sleep.

Well, a very relevant one to now is “ Still I Rise .” I remember singing part of one that went, “Pickin ’em up, and layin’ them down, getting to the next town baby.”

There was this book that I once bought like 15 copies of that I love so much: The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Language . But I have this horrible thing where I don’t retain information that I read. I read War and Peace and I don’t remember it—though I do remember some of the names. I got War and Peace because I read this article about the old Russian couple who did the translation. They translated a bunch of different books, and I just thought that was the sweetest life: you and your spouse poring over these classic works of literature, and talking about it and interpreting it together, like, “How do we say this the right way?” That’s a really beautiful romantic life.

I do. I love seeing anybody in a good relationship. But I don’t see that and want it for myself so much. I honestly have no interest in romance these days. I hope that’s not me somewhere underneath being like, “It’s too painful to love,” because I don’t like that. I don’t get with that way of thinking of, “I’ve been hurt before, so I’m not going to do it again.” You’re new every time. Still, I’ve never been somebody who was like, “I feel comfortable when I have a boyfriend.” I just really want to be around the person.

So I’m sitting here with Zelda in February, really relaxed, and we’re about to have dinner, and I look down at my phone and see [longtime collaborator] Blake Mills texting me. I hadn’t heard from Blake in months. And he’s like, “So I’m working on something, I can’t tell anybody about it, but we want you to come in and do something.” And I was like, “Um, I can’t I’m busy.” And he was like, “Can I call you?” So he called me and he goes, “OK, it’s Bob Dylan. Bob is asking if you will come here and record.” And I went: “When?” And he went: “Now.” And I said “ FUCK ” so loud that I could hear people on the other end of the phone laughing.

I was like, “I’m not trying to put myself down here, Blake, but you and I both know that I’m very underqualified for this job. There’s no point.” And he’s like, “He just wants you to come in to be you.” So I went in the next day. I’m only on “ Murder Most Foul .”

I couldn’t believe it. I had met him many years ago, but I don’t really know why I’m on the record. I was there a total of like seven hours. I told Bob I was really insecure about it, and he was really encouraging and nice. He was just like, “You’re not here to be perfect, you’re here to be you.” To have Bob Dylan say that before my record came out was a huge deal for me. And I mean, this was like the one person I could have met who’s alive right now where it actually would have meant something to me as a kid.

When my stepfather was moving into our apartment—I was probably 10—we cleaned out his apartment to bring his stuff over. That was the day that I discovered his pot. And that was also the day that I discovered his records. One of the records I discovered was Bob Dylan’s Desire , and that’s my favorite. If I were to put that record on now, I would feel too many emotions. I would feel too alive. I’d be afraid to listen to it. That happens to me with music a lot. That’s probably why I don’t listen to a lot of music. Because when it’s really good, it’s like I feel it too much.

I loved Desire so much—I mean, Christ, it was probably even my first small education into racial injustice because of the song “ Hurricane .” And on the song “ Isis ,” he sort of gave me my sexual awakening a little bit. When he goes, “She said, ‘You look different,’ I said, ‘Well, I guess”/[...] She said, ‘You going to stay?’ I said, ‘If you want me to, yes’”—when he says “Well, I guess,” I was like: ooooh.

When I would fake being sick and stay home from school, which was most of the time, as soon as everybody would leave, I’d put on my roller skates and skate around the house. My little ritual was putting on “Like a Rolling Stone” and roller skating around the dining room table 88 times for the number of keys on the piano. When I met Bob Dylan at the Grammys, twentysomething years ago, I told him about the roller skating thing.

I was at the Grammys, I think, and [longtime manager] Andy [Slater] said, “Fiona, c’mere c’mere, Bob Dylan wants to meet you.” And I was like, “What?” I went over and stood with him and told him that story, and somebody took a picture. I’m wearing a brown dress with apples on it, and I got that from Ella Fitzgerald’s estate sale. It was a skirt of hers, and I wore it as a dress. So I’m in Ella Fitzgerald’s skirt made into a dress, standing with Bob Dylan.

I’m sure that she did. I listened to music so much up until the time I started writing my own. And then I just didn’t so much anymore. I loved Ella Fitzgerald. I loved Joan Armatrading, I loved Cyndi Lauper, I loved Harry Belafonte, I loved Bob Dylan, I loved Miriam Makeba, I loved Jack Teagarden. If I listen to any of the ones I really loved, I get so overwhelmed still.

My record player is not plugged in, but I have a Miriam Makeba vinyl on my wall up there, and I recently went and bought three other records that are really important to me: Alice Coltrane , Radha-Krsna Nama Sankirtana ; Kate Bush , The Kick Inside , and Joan Armatrading, To the Limit . If I had to pick one record that’s closest to me from when I was a kid, it’s To the Limit . I feel like it influenced me a lot.

I love her singing style, I love her voice, I love the way she says things. I got really hooked in by the song “ You Rope You Tie Me ” and this one part where she goes, “You’re a lion in my path/In my light/’Scuuuuuse me,” she just says “ ’scuuuuse me ” with gritted teeth. It was her performance of that song that I was like: “I really hear this woman. She’s getting through to me.”

She was playing in New York like 10 or 15 years ago, an outdoor show down by one of the piers. I was just walking by and I heard her, so I went and I watched Joan Armatrading by myself. I tried to make a video when she started doing “You Rope You Tie Me,” and I got tapped by the guard telling me to stop filming. In that moment I felt such closeness and empathy for all the people I’ve seen at my shows getting told “don’t film that” “don’t interrupt.” You’re like, “I’m sorry!” I felt so ashamed.

When I was 11, I became good friends with my brother’s girlfriend Lisa. She was six feet tall and she used to have a mohawk that was like a foot tall. We spent a whole summer in L.A. together. She worked at a video store, and they paid me under the counter. They started doing this prank where, anytime anybody would try to rent porn, they would send me up [to get the tape]. So I’d go on the ladder to get Debbie Does Dallas , Debbie Does ...—Debbie did so many places. I was constantly on this ladder, like, “OK, here!” We eventually got fired in an epic water fight—I got caught in the bathroom making spit balls, and we spilled shit all over the computers and just ran out of there. And Lisa introduced me to Kate Bush. I remember sitting on the kitchen counter at my brother’s house and hearing “Babooshka” for the first time. I used to sing and play a bunch of her songs from The Kick Inside at my piano when I was a kid: “Feel It” and “Moving” and “The Kick Inside” and “Wuthering Heights.”

I don’t think I’m very aware of it. But it absolutely delights me. You know, in the song “Fetch the Bolt Cutters,” I say, “a girl can roll her eyes at me and kill” and that’s absolutely true. But the opposite is also true. If other girls like me, I’m like: “Let’s be best friends!” If somehow I’m actually helping another woman or girl do what she wants to do, and express herself and feel good about that—it makes me feel like I’m in a band with them. And I love that.

It was a really crack-open point. I wrote “Fetch the Bolt Cutters” and “ Newspaper ” after we all thought we were done recording. It doesn’t take me a long time to write things. It’s just the time surrounding the writing that takes all these years. If I’m not in the mood or I don’t put deadlines on myself, I’m not rushing to do anything, so it takes as long as it wants to take.

But I felt at that point like: “No, I’m not done. This record is not done. I need to say some more things.” I sat on the floor next to my piano, and I felt like I was looking at the floor for two days. I wrote the words out almost like a stream of consciousness, except that I was thinking thinking thinking thinking thinking. For “Fetch the Bolt Cutters” and “Newspaper,” I didn’t have music to go with them. I just had the two percussion tracks, and I wrote words to fit with the rhythms. But I didn’t come up with any melody or chords to go with it. I wanted to get on the microphone and just do it. A lot of it sounds like I’m speak-singing. That’s just how it came out. It felt right. It was like I had found me.

Actually, there are some chords I put into “Fetch the Bolt Cutters,” but I didn’t know what to do, so I decided to do C-A-G-E-D, “caged.” I had the title of the album for like three years, but when I wrote the song, it kind of acted out the fetching of the bolt cutters for me, and the cutting of the bolts. So I think that, for that reason, it feels like it’s me. It’s where I was born.

A lot of it is about allowing somebody to have power over you. It’s hard to talk about. I started reading about how things that happened to you many, many years ago can take a long time to process, especially if you’ve been numbing yourself for a long time. I didn’t know that before. I thought I was just keeping myself trapped in feelings and flashbacks and nightmares—feeling trapped by the way somebody tells you who you are, getting isolated with somebody who doesn’t have your best interests at heart. And they manipulate you, and they lie to you. When you love somebody, you believe them when they tell you who you are.

People get their hooks in you by being very loving at first. And you tell them about your weaknesses and your insecurities, and they ended up using it as ammunition against you. They use it to make you feel small so that you don’t leave. And even when you do leave, years later you still believe the things they said about you. I needed to stop believing that stuff. And it’s really hard sometimes. When you’re young, people can really get into your brain. I was also mad at myself for trying to make peace and be friends and ingratiate myself to someone, because I was afraid of them, and because I wanted them to stop.

There’s always little messages in my songs—to a person here, a person there. If I try to talk to somebody about something, and they will not talk to me, what I have to say will end up in a song. It will be veiled in certain ways. But there will be something that only that person will understand.

Well, it’s not just one thing—so, 20 to 30 years? I feel like I understand so much more now than I did when I was writing these songs. But if there’s more to think about, then there’s more to write about, and then that gives me more to do, and that’s good for life.

It’s the same thing tattoos give anybody, which is this idea that: I made me. I claim my body. I can do what I want to my body. In some sense it was an act of faith in myself because I got the tattoo before the record came out. So people could have hated it and it could have been a disaster, but I wasn’t going to wait to find that out before I tattooed it on myself, because it doesn’t matter what everybody else makes of it. What matters is that I did this. It was my own stamp of approval on myself. And it’s a reminder: “You got out of this situation. What’s the next barrier you got to get through?” It also goes back to Extraordinary Machine . I am the bolt cutters, an extraordinary machine. I can get myself free anytime. Plus, I just like how it looks. I’ve only gotten three tattoos in my life.

On the back of my neck, I’ve got my pets names: Janet, Nancy, and Mercy. And I have what they call a “tramp stamp,” but it looks cool. I got that tattoo for [ex-boyfriend] David Blaine, and for myself, because he had gotten a tattoo of my name on his shoulder, which is now covered up with the face of the devil, and I felt like I needed to do something in return. But I didn’t feel right getting “David” tattooed on me. I felt like we were kin, and he’s always going to be in my family. So it’s this symbol that I used to draw when I was a kid, and above it I put, “Kin.” But it’s half removed now, because another boyfriend didn’t want me to have it. It’s a faded tattoo now.

It’s hard to just forgive somebody. Everyone is like, “If you don’t forgive, you’re only hurting yourself,” but it’s very difficult. You can only really balance anger and forgiveness if you have the fulcrum—something to balance them on. The person you’re angry at needs to show you something new and different of themselves. I don’t really even think I do forgive anything. I just accept it, because of the things that I’ve added on—like a new impression of the person that can help you look at the bad stuff in a new light.

But things that are in the past, like cheating—I don’t care about any of that shit anymore. I don’t get mad at the other woman. My dad was a big cheater. He cheated on his wife with my mom, and then he cheated on my mom with a bunch of people. And my grandmother’s husband cheated on her. And I’ve heard them talk about the women, and I just always thought it was not, as they say, a good look. It just seemed wrong, like, “Why aren’t you mad at the guy?” Anyway, I can forgive that stuff. It doesn’t matter to me anymore.

The stuff that’s happened to me that has left scars, by people who will not acknowledge those things and will not talk to me, I will not forgive those things. But I think writing the songs is me trying to get to a place where I can forgive, not because I want to feel good with them, but because I just want to get past it.

I don’t want to be dishonest—there’s a lot of stuff that I’m still working out. But I do feel like I’m in a better place than I ever have been, even though a lot of it is scary and unfamiliar.

The funny thing about that song is that one of the people at that dinner who I had a problem with is now making more money off that song than I am: Some guy from Spotify was there, and I don’t know how they do what they do to us. It doesn’t make any sense. Wasn’t Napster supposed to be like, “That’s not allowed, don’t do that.” And then they’re like, “Let us do it! You don’t get to steal! We get to steal!” It’s fucked up. I know I make less than they do off of work that I do, and I’ve never met them, and they don’t do shit for me.

I’ve never been to a dinner like that before or since, where there’s like six wine glasses in a row out for each person, and they’re tasting so many expensive wines. They open one $900 bottle of wine and let everybody sip it, and then they give you another glass. And everybody was talking about their accomplishments. We were all supposed to say something, and when it got to me, I was like: “Hi I’m Fiona Apple. I think it would be interesting if we talked a bit about what was going on in the world when each one of these wines was made.” I thought that would be a great conversation for fuckin’ rich people to have over expensive wines: What can this group of smart people do with that kind of conversation? Maybe something productive? No, let’s just talk about the idiot book we wrote. Anyway I can’t believe I’m still getting pissed off at that dinner. [ laughs ] But it’s nice to have your say.

I would bet that if I went back and listened to all my old stuff, I would find a lot of things that at least I thought were really funny.

I did. I thought it was a takedown, but a funny takedown. I used to love Dixie Carter on Designing Women . She used to give these big, smart speeches where she’d tell people off , but they’d be funny. You get your point across a lot better with a little bit of humor. And so much of humor is just familiarity, being able to relate to something. It’s a good way to communicate.

I started looking at one of them, but I can’t. I saw one cute, funny thing, and then I saw some ways I was talking about myself, and it was hard to look at. There was a lot of self-blaming. I just didn’t want to have to encounter myself like that again. My mom gave me her diary from when she was 17, and I was thinking I was going to read them both side by side. I don’t think I want to do that anymore.

But who knows? I was so glad to have found them, but it’ll be a while—I just feel like it’s going to bring up too much. I’m afraid of getting really angry. I don’t like feeling angry. I really don’t. I have a great capacity to feel anger, but I do not like it at all. I’m all for analyzing things and for bettering yourself and getting past things, but at a certain point, I just need distraction. That’s why I’m so pro TV. Distraction is sometimes the best medicine when something gets too heavy and just hurts too much. I really have no problem distracting myself. I know I’ll come back to it when I’m OK.

Find a friend. Listen to a different voice than that one voice you’re hearing. Find somebody else to talk to. Let somebody in. Tell somebody. Hear what somebody else has to say about this. Don’t be isolated.

At the time I was thinking about a boxer physically going into the ring. My dad used to have fight nights all the time, so we’d seen a bunch of boxing matches. I used to always try to guess who was going to win just by the way they looked at each other. Sometimes they come in and really try to psych you out, like, “I’m so tough.” But other times, somebody will come in and they don’t need to try anything at all because they know they’re going to win. It was so cool to be like, “I know that guy’s going to win when the bell rings because I saw that look in his eyes.”

Really what I meant, which I thought at the time, is that who you are in your mind is something they can’t break. If you know who you are—if you have a connection to that very deep, dark place with that little light that goes on every time—then you’re OK. It’s not all you need, but it’s what you need to start with.

I always knew. I grew up with that being what the truth was. I think nowadays there’s a lot of people who write about feelings seriously, and they always have. But I don’t remember feeling like I had that much company back when I started. At least I don’t remember being aware. It felt a little harder. I felt like I needed to be brave in order to keep doing it. Certainly there is not the stigma there once was to being an emotional person.

I used to feel really embarrassed about the memory of when I first asked my mom to give me piano lessons. We were living on 162nd Street, and I was sharing a room with my sister. My mom was in her loft bed with Robert, her boyfriend, my soon-to-be stepfather, and I remember waking up in the middle of the night and coming in and standing under their loft bed and yelling up, “Mama, can I have piano lessons?” She said, “OK. Why?” I said, “Because I want to make people happy.” I always thought that was really goofy, and it is, it’s really silly.

But I feel so much closer to that version of why I do music now than I ever have in between. For a long time, I thought, I’m just doing it to make myself feel better . That’s still true: I’m doing it for myself, it’s just a function of the organism that I am. It’s not a career choice, it’s just how I go about life: you write. And anybody who makes a fun pop song that people enjoy, they’re healers. That you give somebody a few minutes of unadulterated joy is so important. It’s all made of love, hopefully.

Have you seen the thing on Tumblr—and I’m sure it’s everywhere—“I don’t know who needs to see this right now, but blah, blah, blah”? I find myself re-blogging those things a lot because I’m like, “Maybe somebody does need to see that, and maybe they follow me, and I can’t turn down the possibility of somebody needing to see that.” Because when you do see something that you need to see, it’s such a relief. I want very badly to be that for whoever I can be that for. I want to be that for my dog, I want to be that for you, I want to be that for the guy across the street, for anybody that I can. That would make everything meaningful.

My relationship to solitude is always going to be really good. But I don’t need it as much as I used to. Maybe in the past, some of my need for all of that solitude was really because I was less confident than I am now. Not that I’m very confident, but I was much less so, especially as a musician. I mean, hell, last Thursday I was on my way home from playing with the band, and it dawned on me: I had gone in, sat down, and “jammed.” I’ve never been somebody who felt OK to jam. I never felt like I could keep up. I never felt like I had good ideas. It would always make me sad when everybody would start to jam because I felt like if I jumped in I would make a mistake and feel bad and shy away. Now, I’ve become a little more sure of myself, and that makes it easier to invite other people in.

When I was drinking, I felt so guilty and ashamed of myself all the time. You could be mad at me about something, and I would think I was guilty no matter what. I’d be on their side—against me. But then I stopped [in 2018] and I just felt more in control, like I can stand by my choices: picking takes, picking instruments, all of those kinds of things. And I know when I’m right.

And I’m getting support. Zelda is a really, really great friend. She should be credited a lot with helping to get this record finished. She was really championing me and helping me through some traumatic memories, and with such wisdom. The band and Zelda have contributed greatly to my confidence. And my dog, believe it or not. When I was adopting her, I was like, “This dog is too much for me. She’s going to need too much attention and exercise and she’s really smart.” But there was this part of me that was like, “No, I am the person that can do all that.” I made this bet with myself: I can be the person to match up with this dog. I can get up everyday, and match minds. I look at Mercy like she’s the coolest lady in the world. And she chooses to be next to me.

They’re aren’t so many things I’ve learned from dogs, but they’re the most important things. A lot of it is what people say their kids do for them, but you don’t need to have a kid for that. With dogs, all you need to do is watch them, and you’re happy. They’re funny and smart or silly. Mercy is very emotionally intelligent. You see the wheels turning when something is going on. I could go out into the yard and cry by myself, and Zelda’s dog Maddie will find me and lean on me with that big body, like, “I’m sittin with you lady. I got you.” And I just don’t believe it—how did she know!

When I first stopped drinking, I was having lots of panic attacks. I didn’t go to a rehab but I rented a little apartment and went to see a doctor every day, and I brought Mercy with me. It was just me and Mercy for a month. Often she would come over and lay her body on top of me, to ground me, and just wouldn’t move. They make you feel important, which is good for mental health for everybody. They look at you and they need you and you’re their person. Every morning, when Mercy and I go running, there’s always a certain point where she looks up at me, and she’s like: “This is so fun. I love this. Isn’t this so fun? I love you.” And there’s just nothing better.

We want to go and buy some land and that’s just going to be dogs and dogs and dogs. If nobody sees me for the next few years, just know I will be with dogs.

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Fiona Apple Kicks Heckler Out Of Portland Show

By Greg Moskovitch

Fiona Apple has had another run-in with less than cordial crowd members at a gig in Portland, Oregon, during which the distraught singer yelled obscenities at a heckler, before leaving the stage with her band soon after. Apple had a similar outburst at a gig in Tokyo last month .

Apple and her band were playing a career-spanning set at Portland’s Newmark Theatre, in support of her most recent album, The Idler Wheel… . Apple had just debuted a new song, titled I Want You To Love Me , before a heckler reportedly told Apple to “get healthy.”

The Oregonian reports that Apple turned immediately distraught by the heckler, who shouted “Get healthy, we want to see you in 10 years!” An upset Apple responded “I am healthy,” before standing up from her piano to face the audience.

The emotional Apple then launched a barrage of obscenities at the heckler, garnering support from most of the crowd, though one man reportedly shouted “You’re a has-been!” from the rafters, further upsetting the irate Apple, who requested the house lights be turned on.

After ousting the heckler from the crowd, Apple and her band played one more song before leaving the stage, with a teary Apple apologising and labelling it “a historically stupid night.” Readers can listen to Apple’s new song I Want You To Love Me , below.

( Via NME )

Listen: Fiona Apple – I Want You To Love Me

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Iron & Wine Reveals New Duet with Fiona Apple, “All in Good Time”

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The post Iron & Wine Reveals New Duet with Fiona Apple, “All in Good Time” appeared first on Consequence .

Iron & Wine has shared “All in Good Time,” a duet with Fiona Apple and the latest single off the singer and songwriter’s upcoming album  Light Verse .

In classic duet fashion, Iron & Wine’s Sam Beam and Fiona Apple trade stanzas and couplets throughout “All in Good Time,” occasionally meeting to sing the refrain in unison. The pair of singers embrace their folk tradition by offering rugged descriptions of the past, narrating their triumphs and failures with humor and ease. Of Apple’s contribution to the song, Sam Beam shared in a statement, “Her voice is a miracle that sounds like both a sacrifice and a weapon at the same time.” Stream the track below.

The song’s lyrics also fall in line with the all-encompassing, existential hue of Iron & Wine’s previous offering, “You Never Know.” For his new album Light Verse , Iron & Wine recruited a 24-person orchestra, which can be heard on “All in Good Time.”  Light Verse is Iron & Wine’s seventh studio album and will be released on April 26th. In support of the album, Sam Beam is embarking on a lengthy 2024 tour ; get tickets to all his upcoming tour dates here .

Get Iron & Wine Tickets Here

“All in Good Time” also serves as Fiona Apple’s first musical appearance in 2024. She previously guested on the band Flesh Eater’s song “komfortzone” in 2023 and lent her vocals to “Where the Shadows Lie” for the end credits theme of The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power  in 2022.

Iron & Wine Reveals New Duet with Fiona Apple, “All in Good Time” Paolo Ragusa

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Fiona apple cancels tour to care for janet, her dying dog.

Fiona Apple posted a heartfelt, handwritten note on her Facebook page Tuesday explaining that she has canceled the latest leg of her worldwide tour to care for her sick pit bull named Janet, who is on her death bed.

Apple adopted Janet when the dog was just four months old and the now 35-year-old singer was only 21.

“I am not the woman who puts her career ahead of love and friendship. I am the woman who stays home and bakes Tilapia for my dearest, oldest friend,” writes Apple in the four-page post. “I am staying home, and I am listening to her snore and wheeze, and reveling in the swampiest, most awful breath that ever emanated from an angel. And I am asking for your blessing.”

Apple's 14-year-old dog is currently suffering from Addison’s disease and a tumor in her chest. Because of the dog's regularly required injections of Cortisol, the singer says she is unable to travel.

The letter does not specify exactly which performances will be canceled, but a list of tour dates on Apple’s website has been replaced by the emotional letter. However, the note does appear to imply that Apple may reschedule the shows, asking fans to "meet a little while later."

Read the full text of the letter (pictured at right) below:

It's 6pm on Friday, and I'm writing to a few thousand friends I have not met yet. I am writing to ask them to change our plans and meet a little while later.

Here's the thing.

I have a dog Janet, and she's been ill for almost two years now, as a t

umor has been idling in her chest, growing ever so slowly. She's almost 14 years old now.I got her when she was 4 months old. I was 21 then ,an adult officially - and she was my child.

She is a pitbull, and was found in Echo Park, with a rope around her neck, and bites all over her ears and face.

She was the one the dogfighters use to puff up the confidence of the contenders.

She's almost 14 and I've never seen her start a fight ,or bite, or even growl, so I can understand why they chose her for that awful role. She's a pacifist.

Janet has been the most consistent relationship of my adult life, and that is just a fact.

We've lived in numerous houses, and jumped a few make shift families, but it's always really been the two of us.

She slept in bed with me, her head on the pillow, and she accepted my hysterical, tearful face into her chest, with her paws around me, every time I was heartbroken, or spirit-broken, or just lost, and as years went by, she let me take the role of her child, as I fell asleep, with her chin resting above my head.

She was under the piano when I wrote songs, barked any time I tried to record anything, and she was in the studio with me all the time we recorded the last album.

The last time I came back from tour, she was spry as ever, and she's used to me being gone for a few weeks every 6 or 7 years.

She has Addison's Disease, which makes it dangerous for her to travel since she needs regular injections of Cortisol, because she reacts to stress and to excitement without the physiological tools which keep most of us from literally panicking to death.

Despite all of this, she’s effortlessly joyful and playful, and only stopped acting like a puppy about 3 years ago.

She's my best friend and my mother and my daughter, my benefactor, and she's the one who taught me what love is. I can't come to South America. Not now.

When I got back from the last leg of the US tour, there was a big, big difference.

She doesn't even want to go for walks anymore. I know that she's not sad about aging or dying. Animals have a survival instinct, but a sense of mortality and vanity, they do not. That’s why they are so much more present than people. But I know that she is coming close to point where she will stop being a dog, and instead, be part of everything. She’ll be in the wind, and in the soil, and the snow, and in me, wherever I go.

I just can't leave her now, please understand.

If I go away again, I’m afraid she'll die and I won't have the honor of singing her to sleep, of escorting her out.

Sometimes it takes me 20 minutes to pick which socks to wear to bed.

But this decision is instant.

These are the choices we make, which define us.

I will not be the woman who puts her career ahead of love and friendship.

I am the woman who stays home and bakes Tilapia for my dearest, oldest friend.

And helps her be comfortable, and comforted, and safe, and important.

Many of us these days, we dread the death of a loved one. It is the ugly truth of Life, that keeps us feeling terrified and alone.

I wish we could also appreciate the time that lies right beside the end of time.

I know that I will feel the most overwhelming knowledge of her, and of her life and of my love for her, in the last moments.

I need to do my damnedest to be there for that.

Because it will be the most beautiful, the most intense, the most enriching experience of life I've ever known. When she dies.

So I am staying home, and I am listening to her snore and wheeze, and reveling in the swampiest, most awful breath that ever emanated from an angel.

And I am asking for your blessing.

I'll be seeing you.

Love, Fiona

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Why Fiona Apple is right to cancel her tour for her dying dog

Musicians cancel tours for many, many reasons. A guitarist might have injured their hand; recording sessions might have overrun; the singer might be suffering "nervous exhaustion"; they might be covering up poor ticket sales. But last night, the US singer-songwriter Fiona Apple wrote an open letter on her Facebook page to say she was cancelling her South American dates to look after her dog , Janet, who is dying with a tumour. Shortly after Apple's post appeared, several hundred followers had sent messages of support. By this morning, they numbered in the thousands. Even non-dog owners have been moved by Apple's confession that her pitbull is "my best friend and my mother and my daughter, and my benefactor, and she's the one who taught me what love is". But dog owners best understand the special, almost telepathic bond that can develop between a canine and a human being, and grasp why fans have been so supportive, how Apple's career will have suddenly paled into insignificance, and how much she is hurting.

Her decision reminds me of something I went through. In 1998, I was working away in the US for a pop magazine when my own beloved dog, Henry, was hit by a car. Back home, I nursed him for a month, listening to his howls of agony in the night. While he was ill, the magazine called me to say they needed the story urgently, so I completed it despite having to put Henry's suffering to one side to work. Two days later, I noticed a tiny error in the piece and called them to correct it. They hadn't even looked at what I'd written, and when the vet told me we could do no more, I was mortified that I had spent what turned out to be some of Henry's last hours whittling away at a piece that wasn't so urgent after all. I had no other offers of work at the time, but made the decision to never write for that magazine again.

This summer, when we lost Henry's equally loved successor, Guinness, on the operating table to a cancerous hemangiosarcoma, a record company publicist asked me what I thought of a new album by a band called Dog Is Dead. I emailed back to say that I was very sorry but I couldn't listen to it because my dog had just died.

"Yikes. Sorry about that. Name is unfortunate, but reckon the sounds you may like."

The music business never was big on sensitivity. I've since been asked to write about the same band and have said I couldn't and I never will.

Reading Fiona Apple's words about why she cancelled the tour brought all this back and more, as did hearing Band of Horses on Monday night singing "the dog is gone" in Ode to LRC – their own requiem to a lost friend.

For most dog owners, in most jobs, the companionship of a dog is as important as anything else in their lives. There's no reason for it to be different just because the dog owner happens to be an internationally famous musician. Fiona Apple has spent 13 years with Janet sleeping in her bed, accepting the singer's "hysterical, tearful face into her chest, with her paws around me, every time I was heartbroken", and barking under the piano as she wrote songs .

Similarly, Henry saw me through student life, the death of my mother, poverty and unemployment. Guinness was by my side during the end of a long relationship, career travails, the deaths of relatives and friends and the birth of my first son, who arrived, heartbreakingly, just two weeks after the dog whose bark he will have heard in the womb was taken from us. And I was there for Guinness whenever he was hungry, was bullied by a bigger dog or had a thorn in his paw.

I never got the chance to say goodbye to either of my own best friends. Fiona Apple has been given that chance and must take it. As she puts it: "These are the choices we make, which define us. I will not be the woman who puts her career ahead of love and friendship. I am the woman who stays home and bakes tilapia for my dearest, oldest friend. And helps her be comfortable, and comforted, and safe, and important." There will no doubt be some who will not understand her, who will mock and ridicule, but Apple's decision says much about her as a person and an artist. She has chosen to put her career, cheering crowds and who knows how many dollars in losses secondary to the final needs of her small animal companion.

• Fiona Apple
• Pop and rock

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