Barely out of her teens, it's easy to dismiss waif noir singer-songwriter Fiona as just another whining adolescent slacker, gagging on rotting Big Apple air and underfed on a diet of Prozac Nation and ennui. And certainly, giving her second album a 90-word-title doesn't do anything to shake the pretentious tag. Regardless, there is an unflinching rawness to Fiona's music that sets her apart from the faux earth motherisms of Alanis or outer planetary musing of Amos (the pair to whom she's most frequently compared). The production is, quite rightly, centered around her full-bloodied piano playing and that gloriously, spookily world weary voice. And if anything, it sinks deeper into the murky depths of emotional fuck-ups than Tidal, her US million selling debut. "You wanna make me sick, you wanna lick my wounds, don't you baby?" she growls at the beginning of the jerky rocker Limp. There is a black humour at work here too - the jaunty Paper Bag ("hunger hurts, but starving works when it costs too much to love") appear to be a wry snipe at the media's preoccupations with her own bulimia problems. Uneasy listening at its very best. 

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