Annie Clark, performing as St. Vincent, is considered one of the greatest guitarists in the world. But in her latest single -- the elegant, aching "New York" -- she sheds her rock 'n' roll roots in favor of a simple keyboard and a set of strings.
The songwriter, who grew up in Lake Highlands, is still just as orchestral in her approach, just as precise in her composition. Yet the stripped-down “New York” taps into an intimate and unsettling vulnerability by the end of the first chorus.
With a production assist from the ever-prolific Jack Antonoff (of Bleachers and fun. fame), Clark copes with a moment of transition, both in her personal story and in how she chooses to tell it. She's becoming a different person, reorienting her understanding of her world in the face of personal developments, most notable being a broken relationship at the heart of this track. (A heads up for listeners: The song contains foul language.)
She's uncharacteristically candid in "New York," a departure from the cryptic poetry of her successful solo albums, including St. Vincent and Strange Mercy. Each verse begins with the same line, "New York isn't New York / Without you, love."
Some speculate that this is an abstract declaration, not about a specific person or situation but rather about the overwhelming sensation of finding oneself alone. Others suspect that this song is maybe about Clark’s former partner, Cara Delevingne.
Regardless, there is no denying that this song is deeply personal. “I have lost a hero / I have lost a friend,” Clark sings in the chorus hook. “But for you, darling / I'd do it all again.”
She punctuates the song with the repeated use of an expletive describing her lost hero, her tone cathartic.
The song’s narrator is looking for someone who is no longer the person she remembers -- in a place that isn’t quite the same without that person.
One can imagine the places that Clark sings about -- Eighth Avenue, Astor Place -- as backdrops for an epic story. Glittering skyscrapers frame the scene: two people captured just as they begin to spark off each other. One can also imagine these places bookending an abrupt end: loud, unceasing traffic; dirty, gray sidewalks stretching out in all directions; faces lost in rush-hour crowds. The two friends, or lovers, now separate as the scene fades to black.
“New York” captures the contradictions of its namesake and, in broad lyrical and musical strokes, recreates both moments. Clark crystallizes these scenes in tandem as the orchestra swells and the delicate piano keeps marching ahead: the excitement and familiarity and romanticization of the past are inextricable from the wistfulness and loneliness and newness of the future.
Clark -- or at least her narrator -- recognizes the allure of her memories. She also recognizes that she has to keep living. Whatever work comes next from St. Vincent, an artist in her prime, will be an elaborate product of personal growing pains. “New York” indicates as much. She remembers -- she hurts, even, and still creates wrenching, complex art from her loss. But she chooses not to regret.
