Scott’s vocals, once trained to channel the manicured, girlish confidence of her roles as Mo Banjaree in Lemonade Mouth and Jasmine in Aladdin, have lost their Disneyified sheen, becoming sufficiently well-rounded to sink into every emotional crevice. At turns her voice is rich and deep, capturing the rough hems of limerence, at others panty and delicate, spinning out over the delicious high of another body pressed against hers. F.I.G isn’t autobiographical; its lyrical inspiration springs from the famous fig tree scene in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. In it, a woman imagines plump green figs dangling from branches, each representing a different life path—in one she sees herself as an esteemed poet, in another she lives a happy domestic life with a handsome family. On F.I.G, Scott imagines herself as Jared Leto’s all-knowing character in Mr. Nobody, each song a fig symbolizing another possibility.
There’s one fruit threatening to shrivel up and blacken in “Bound,” where a lover hovers just out of reach: “How many times have I missed you/In all of the places I don’t see?/How many lives have I held you close?/And who would I be to let go?” The narrator of “Sweet Nausea” reminisces about the one who got away, even though they know full well it’s time to move on: “I’m coming down with something/Got sugar stuck in my throat/Pacing the fun fair playing some age I’ve overgrown.” Scott’s writing details ordinary human experiences—heartbreak (“Bliss”), yearning (“Rhythm”)—with a keen analytical eye and the maturity of someone who knows that ordinary doesn’t always mean easy.
For the most part, these profoundly affecting songs are paced to incite little more than a two-step, meaning they’re prepared to tour with the subdued drama of a stool and microphone. Much of F.I.G reminds me of a riveting section of Janet: Live in Hawaii, the 2002 HBO special, in which Janet Jackson, outfitted in a simple black costume, finally takes a seat after swinging her hips around for half an hour, and relishes in deep pauses and eye contact as she sings “Let’s Wait Awhile” to an enraptured audience. I’m imagining the jangly guitar part on “Sweet Nausea” playing out in a similar way, and I expect people—many of them too young to remember Windows Media Player—will be singing along.
Nota: 8.0/10
