Digging through the muddiness of Björk’s latest release, ‘Fossora’

Since her time in the 1980s with the Sugarcubes, Björk has earned a name for herself through thoughtful lyrics, artful vocal interpretations and melodic abstractions. Her acclaim has few limits and her legacy of sonic worldbuilding has paved the way for transformative musicians such as Arca. Her highly anticipated album, “Fossora” was recently released to more of that acclaim.

“Fossora,” mostly earns this hype by exploring themes including relationships, motherhood and the #MeToo movement and continuing Bjork’s masterful creative direction (see below: the “Atopos” music video).

In “Fossora,” Björk plays with the idea of fungi and gravity while molding her style with Gabber, a genre of hardcore techno originating in the Netherlands, to convey a sense of “landing,” like feet on the ground. The strength of this album’s instrumentation, however, was unable to distract from hollow lyrics that failed to meet this project’s thematic goals.

The opening track, “Atopos”, featuring Kasimyn (the half of Indonesian electronic duo Gabber Modus Operandi who is not the subject of sexual abuse allegations), begins with vocals that sound alternatingly closer and far away, as though they were traversing time, like a fleeting memory.

The clarinets echo in the background as though they were narrating an evil Sesame Street rhyme, a reminder that the plant reaching closest towards the sun has the darkest shadows under its petals. Perfectionism is always an overcompensation, erasing the flawed aspects of life that distinguish it from artificial reality. In the context of a relationship, it erases the quirks that you once loved in the face of hardship, something echoed later in the album with “Freefall” — a soft and intimate ballad about an aging relationship that highlights the scope of Björk’s vocal range. Another interpretation of Bjork’s message yearns for peace and connection between people with different beliefs following a hectic past few years.

“If my plant doesn’t reach towards you / There’s internal erosion towards all / Pursuing the light too hard is a form of hiding,” she sings

More importantly, all you can make out by the end of “Atopos” is that “Hope is a mussel…” Or “Hope is a muscle.” Whatever. If you contort your thoughts to match your perception of Björk’s, it nearly makes sense. Hope is the lifeform attachment reminding you that everything has value. Or, it is literally a muscle, something exercised tirelessly in the depths of a difficult relationship that only grows stronger as things digress. All of which is very apparent in the skeletal and robotic beat that drives the song, like a zombified Jane Fonda working you to death.

The drum in “Ovule” goes “tsk tsk tsk” alongside ascendant, propulsive vocals. It’s telling Björk no, in comparison to lyrics that read as a digestion of emotions. The music is irreverent in its treatment of your expectations. Notes never land where you expect.

“The hostility a broken heart endures / the velocity of that injury is returned to the world / with the same grin showing teeth,” she sings

A lost relationship is eulogized in the face of a new beginning — a child. In that child, the love that was once shared comes back to Björk with a similar face, but without all the ire.

Sometimes, it doesn’t make sense how you can love that face all over again. But you do. “Tsk tsk tsk.” And that love is so transcendent that it needs to be prioritized over everything that occurred in the past. Björk’s lyrics truthfully isolate one of the most conflicting aspects of being a parent in a household as “broken” as this tune’s rhythm. The imagery of a glass egg carrying Bjork’s most cherished moments from her former relationship represents its precariousness. As the avatars inside that memory continue their romance, the physical Bjork has a permanently altered perception of loving that is only repaired by her dedication to her child. By the song’s end Bjork has vowed to end the relationship’s old habits and focus on her child, permanently raising the egg from her reach. The old habits aren’t restricted to fighting, however, and she comes to terms with the idea that raising her daughter in peace means sacrificing even the best parts of her partnership.

I could see the eponymous “Fossora” (also featuring Kasimyn) in a dramatic, all-female, off-Broadway rendition of Louis Sachar’s “Holes.” It’s a highlight of the album, but feels out of place on the tracklist. There’s a sense of whiplash as a listener coming from “Freefall,” a pleasant ditty about falling/being in love. The powerful lyrics call to mind legions of women digging away at generational trauma and planting their roots for kin to come, but are almost sidelined by a kick that hits a thousand times, like shovels cracking the crust of the earth. It’s the sonic portrayal of realizing how badass all of your female ancestors are. This song has what’s missing from others reconciling Björk’s relationship with motherhood. Mothers might just be like the Medusa. You can’t face them dead on, lest you be turned to stone. The song’s final lines, “Even though the ground is burnt (Fossora)/Underneath monumental growth/Fossora (Fossora, Fossora,” is Bjork recognizing that the loss of her mother has pushed her emotional resilience to its limits and taught her in the process. She gathers the strength to get through by digging deeply into her lineage and capitalizing on her maternal instincts, something alluded to by the track’s alternating first and third person perspective.

A moment of haunting peace is offered by the somber melodies of “Fagurt Er í Fjörum,” before the scariest idea conjured by this album — even beyond being devoured by fungi– is introduced. “Victimhood” starts off strong, with deep woodwinds on top of a simple tapping meter and industrial horn. It’s potentially a landmark in the generally apolitical Björk’s public stance.

With the context of #MeToo looming over this album, and no other tracks feeling as relevant, “Victimhood” is a hard pill to swallow. However, It’s also supported by a capella cries that underscore the helplessness of its subject matter as they’re swallowed up by ominous clarinets and a Gabber beat.

“Victimhood / Has a saintly glow / Holier than thou / It erased my shadow(shadow) / Only bird’s eye view / Can help me / Transcend this archetype,” she sings.

But it also reads as a tad victim-blamey. It seems to criticize other victims who aren’t as strong as the author sees herself; those who are, in her eyes, actively choosing to remain victims. It’s a criticism of victims that only someone who has been victimized could make, begging the weaker person to try and imagine more important issues than their trauma. It is another opinion without nuance that hides behind an interesting concept. The correlation between victimhood and rejection is particularly discomforting and seems at direct odds with “Atopos’” messaging. Where that song asks for love and respect amongst all people, “Victimhood” calls the sentiment naive. For all of the song’s intensity, it feels aimless.

Altogether, the songs about Björk’s relationship with her mother tell a beautiful story, but individually fall flat when it comes to “digging deeper.” “Fossora” is the kind of album that is dampened by its context. Still, Björk continues to excel in her conceptual worldbuilding through instrumentation. The extent of thought and imagination put into the album make up for lyrics that occasionally dip into simplicity. It’s also singular in its kind. Björk is making music for a new generation of mothers, even if she isn’t completely sure how to do it.