Among the scattering of glossy mag fashion shoots is a story of a damn well talented woman who intrigues and delights with every song she releases. I can read all manner of coverage and profiles about Annie Clark (for it is she) and still feel satisfied that there’s so much left to discover. It is no surprise that the top 40 lists of the year from more reputable music commentators than I place St. Vincent at the summit, praising her creativity and playful spirit. I join that praise; in much the same way I am attracted to Björk, so I find St. Vincent intriguing and interesting.
“Prince Johnny” is the great character piece of her recent album. Who is this Johnny, and is the tale of snorting bits from the Berlin Wall artistic apocrypha or much polished anecdote? Is he, as I first thought, a gay man having feelings for St. Vincent herself? Whatever the back-story,and doubtlessly the Internet would tell me were I to ask, the song’s majestic hypnotism is enough to have me swooning quite ungentlemanly-fashion at its feet. It seems harebrained at the very least not to champion such a cracking song.