#Pete is just as dense as Big Bob

[ratguy-nico]

Now I pretty much like lying and being and hypocrite so here is a COMPILATION that I made of scenes from the episode "Father of the Bob" I put a minimum of effort on this so I hope for myself to not freak out.

Yeah this is about Big Bob and Pete... no comments.

[tinyyoungblood]

pillow fort tragedy | peter parker

summary: what do you do when you have the entire compound to yourself? that’s right, you build a gigantic pillow fort with your boyfriend and the two dudes you have to babysit—an enhanced ex-soviet assassin and the god of thunder from outta space. good luck with that.

pairing: peter parker x avenger!reader

warnings: language, fluff, tiny bit of conflict and mention of injury

word count: 2.6 k

a/n: absolute crack fic lmao enjoy! x

* * *

It was another Sunday at the Compound which meant that something completely stupid had to go down at some point. This time, it was a real team effort and Steve would’ve surely been proud to some extent. Only, Steve wasn’t there and if he were, all of this wouldn’t have happened in the first place, which probably would’ve been better for everybody involved. Wherever you looked, miles and miles of pillows and blankets covered what used to be the comfort of their home. Now, it was a new empire.

Turning on the comm in your ear, you continued squeezing through the narrow passage of blankets that were poorly draped over some wobbly chairs and shelves. “Guys? Pete, can you hear me?” No answer. For a second, your back touched a blanket and the whole interior started to wobble, making you hold your breath. Who would’ve thought that a highly trained assassin and an invincible God were absolutely terrible at building something as simple as a pillow fort? Hah, not you.

It all started at 11 a.m. sharp when the others left for a mission that neither you nor Peter were allowed to join, but that wasn’t anything new. The two of you were used to it and almost always found something to occupy your time with. The same thing couldn’t be said for Bucky and Thor though, who were both incredibly offended to be treated like “dense punks”. Dense punks as in Peter and you. But then again, the only reason you both weren’t allowed to tag along was your age.

The former was denied because he kept forgetting to put down the toilet seat despite various warnings on Cap’s side and death threat’s on Nat’s and the latter wasn’t allowed to join because of the smell coming from his room that was almost tearing off the wallpaper in the hallway. They were practically grounded which was hilarious, especially since this was quite a rare combination of team members that the Compound had never witnessed before. So, to break the ice and get properly acquainted, Peter had the revolutionary idea to build a pillow fort with every godforsaken pillow, blanket and bedsheet that the Compound had to offer.

And so it began. Every bed, except for Thor’s because you were almost 100% sure that something lived underneath it, was brutally stripped off its covers and used to build the most atrocious and unsteadiest one of its kind. From the Common room to the elevator, every square meter was covered. Your heart race had honestly never been as high as when you tried to get yourself something to drink after having to dodge every pillow tower on your way to the kitchen. You still managed to end up with a wet shirt and a swollen ankle.

It was honestly all fun and games until the games turned into the mission of their lives. Peter had jokingly commanded them to not let this fort go down, under any circumstances—a stupid thing to say to the Winder Soldier and the King of Asgard. And it wasn’t because of their admirable determination and ambition, no—it was because both of them were stubborn idiots who would never dare lose a game.

And from there on, it kind of went downhill. Things started to escalate, highly expensive items were shattered, people were thrown, pillow fights happened inside the pillow fort—it was awful and you were just glad that nothing had caught on fire yet. Suddenly the subtle ‘click’ in your ear made you halt and you listened carefully. “Y/N? Babe, can you hear me?” Peter’s voice was shaky and you hastily answered. “Yes, I—I can hear you, Peter.” He let out a long sigh, relief flooding over his aching limbs. “Oh, thank god, you’re still alive—Where are you? Are you okay?” You nodded eagerly and looked around. “I’m fine…but I think I’m lost. Actually, I have no idea where I am. The tiles all look the same. Stupid Tony and his stupid monochronic taste in architecture,” you mumbled under your breath and you could hear him chuckle.

“Okay, that’s fine. Your ankle’s still swollen, right? Don’t move it, we’ll come get you. I think I can hear your heartbeat—“ He paused for a moment and you thought he expected some kind of reaction so you hesitantly responded, “…Aww?”

“Hm? No, that—sorry, Thor is holding an inaugural speech and he just started to list off his childhood best friends and one of them, you won’t believe it, is called Bob.” He snickered on the other side of the line and you furrowed your brows. “Bob?” He hummed. “Oh, well. Uhm, anyway, why exactly is Thor holding a speech again?”

“Oh, he just pronounced himself King of Blankard.”

“…Come again?”

“Blankard? Because it’s a pillow fort? But we also used blankets? And Pillowgard just doesn’t have—”

“—the same ring to it. Got it.” You glanced in each direction of the tunnel but it seemed like you were still the only one in this area. “Peter, when are you guys going to get here?” He didn’t respond and the only thing you heard was a slow clap and a whistle. You rolled your eyes. Your boyfriend was cheering for the new King of Blankard so you might as well have to start thinking about ways to fend for yourself once dusk would fall. You heard some shuffling before his voice came back. “Sorry, babe, I just assumed it’s bad manners to interrupt a God while they’re monologuing.”

It wasn’t biologically possible for you to roll your eyes any harder but you made it work.

“Just get here.” You sighed and he smooched a kiss into your ear. Your ankle started to pulse so you decided to sit down for a while until they would find you.

A few minutes passed and you finally heard distinct chatter. Crawling toward it, you felt like a big toddler when Peter’s eyes locked with yours and lit up. “Baby!” He cupped your face with both hands and excitedly planted kisses all over your face, making you giggle. Parting from you, you shot Thor a smile who gave you a friendly nod. “Please, do not expect a greeting of that same manner on my behalf, Lady Y/N.”

You laughed. “That’s totally cool, Thor, don’t worry.” Leaning forward to look past Peter, you realized that Bucky wasn’t with them. “We’ve lost him,” Peter explained as he watched your face turn into pure horror.

“…To death?”

He almost choked on air. “Dear god, no. He took a wrong turn and now we can’t find him. He’s still very much alive…I think.” You nodded swiftly and glanced at your watch. “Okay, guys, it was really fun while it lasted but I need to get to my room now to send in that Biology paper. And maybe put some ice on this bad boy.” You gestured to your ankle but they stared at you blankly.

“What?”

“You can’t get through the hallway, Lady Y/N.”

“What?” You repeated yourself, brows knitted. “Why?”

“Blanket collapse. Kind of like an avalanche,” Thor explained and you stared at him in disbelief.

“Guys, I don’t want to play anymore. I really have to hand in the paper now. The deadline’s in 10 minutes.”

“But you can’t get through.” Peter tried to reason.

“What do you mean? It’s blankets and pillows. You just…” You gestured a sweeping motion. “…push it aside.”

He pouted. “But then the fort will collapse.”

“Peter, I don’t care.” You sucked in a sharp breath to speak calmly. “Can’t we just tear the fort down?”

“No!!” The two suddenly shouted horrified as if you had just suggested to run over a puppy. The terror on your face turned blank.

“…What?”

“Y/N, I love you, but I swore to Thor that, as a rightful citizen of Blankard, I would put my life on the line for this fort. It’s my home now and he even made me swore over a pillow and everything, it was really cool, you should’ve seen it.” Thor nodded proudly.

You pinched the bridge of your nose to stop the steam from coming out your ears. “Okay, how about this? I’m not a citizen of Blankard, right?” Your laugh edged on insanity. “So I could just…” You imitated the sweeping motion again. “…right?”

Not meeting your gaze, Peter fidgeted with his hands. “Well…”

You let your head fall back with a groan. “Peter!”

“I’m sorry, okay! But you’re technically one of the Founding Fathers,” he explained sheepishly and you wanted to pulverize him. Your glare sent shivers down his spine. “Peter Benjamin Parker, I am not going to miss my deadline because of a pillow fort. Now, get me…to my…room.” With every word you inched closer to him until you were pressed flush against his chest, piercing eyes boring into his soul.

He gulped and didn’t found the right words, or any words really, to escape his mouth so he just nodded stiffly. Racking his brain with all the movies he had ever watched, Peter came up with a quick idea. “Okay, how about this…” As he started to ramble about his plan, you took notice of Thor who was comfortably sitting behind Peter while stretching out his arm with an open palm. You’ve seen that movement far too many times and thus knew exactly what he was doing.

Catching you look at him, he smiled brightly at you while giving you a friendly wave. You waved back and averted your gaze back to your boyfriend.

“…So once I’m outside, I can easily climb through your bedroom window, open your laptop and turn in the paper for you. There’s no way that we could fuck that up, right?” He laughed nervously and you had to suppress your shit-eating grin.

“Sorry to disappoint, Pete, but looks like Thor’s already on that case. Don’t worry about it.”

With furrowed brows, he whipped around and you could swear you saw his soul escape his body. “Thor, NO!!”

But it was too late. Like domino stones, each and every pillow started to collapse and pull the blankets with it. Everything was happening in slow motion as Thor realized what he had done and once Mjolnir was in his hand, he quickly scooped you up and threw you on his shoulder. Peter landed on the other one and with both of you protesting, he ran away from the falling pillows and toward the elevator. Right at the doorway where the paths were lower, he let the both of you fall to the ground, screaming “CRAWL!!”.

Doing as told, you crawled as fast as you could in front of them, ignoring the sharp ache in your ankle but once you rounded the corner, you bumped into a hard chest. It was a very confused Bucky. His hair was tousled, he had a scratch to his cheek and overall looked like he came back from wrestling a bear. In unison, the three of you yelled “CRAWL!!” and he whipped around to lead the way.

It was all for nothing though. The walls around you started to give in and in the blink of an eye, four Avengers were buried under a pile of pillows and blankets.

It was silent for a second, no one comprehended what just happened. In some way, it was like the deadly silence that followed after defeat—a battlefield of buried hopes and duvets.

But you couldn’t help it and started laughing.

Of course, it was muffled but you laughed hard. The realization that you had missed your deadline because of a pillow fort that you built with earth’s best defenders was comically genius to you. Your belly shook with laughter while tears brimmed your eyes and you knew you were seconds away from running out of oxygen when suddenly the distinct ‘ding’ of the elevator caught your attention and your laughter abruptly died down.

Peter caught your eye as he suddenly looked…very excited? He wasn’t sure what part of his biological whereabouts made him feel this spur of adrenaline for being busted, maybe it was the teenage set of rebellious hormones, but it was for sure questionable.

Rising with the others, an all too familiar voice bellowed from the hallway. “WHAT THE HELL.”

A faint ‘Language…” followed and the corners of your mouth quirked up. Dizzily looking around the room, you had to bite back your laughter again.

It truly was like a battlefield. The others were scattered close to you on the ground, still halfway buried under a few layers while sharing silent looks of fear. Well, except for Peter maybe, who looked like he was standing in line for a roller coaster.

The footsteps came closer and within a second, they all stood at the doorway, still geared and everything. As expected, Tony’s eyes roamed through the room with bewilderment plastered on his face. Steve just portrayed pure confusion whereas Nat and Sam both had an amused smirk dangling on their lips, some might even say they were impressed.

When Tony’s eyes landed on the four of you, sitting in the middle of the room, looking like lost puppies who had no idea what maniac instincts overtook them to create this beautiful mess, he was speechless. Tony Stark was speechless.

The others glanced at him sideways, anticipating another explosion but instead, he looked like 10 years were capped off his life and he let out a long sigh. “…Pillow fort?”

The four of you nodded silently. Another moment of silence followed but this time, he had just accepted his fate. That’s what he signed up for when he left two men-children and two actual children at home all by themselves. This one was on him really.

When he noticed that the others were staring at him and expecting him to handle the mess, he almost looked offended.

“She's crying—“ He pointed at you and then Peter. “He's excited, I'm confused, nothing new. Now are we going or not?” Not waiting for an answer, he whirled around and left the room. Sharing a collective look of confusion, Steve informed with an amused smile. “We’re going out to eat Shawarma. Let’s go.” He nodded in the direction of the elevator and walked away, Nat and Sam following closely behind.

The room was silent again as Bucky picked himself up and Thor dusted off his clothes, both avoiding each other’s gaze. It was like nobody wanted to admit or even believe what had happened for the past few hours. Peter helped you up and wrapped your arm around his neck to steady you before leaving a soft kiss on your cheek. You smiled at him and together you walked, or more likely limped, toward the elevator. At the doorway, the four of you halted and turned back around to let your gaze fall on the remains of a fun afternoon. And just like that, it was another Sunday at the Compound.

* * *

this was so much fun to write and if i could make even one of you smile just a little bit with this one, it would absolutely make my day. thank for you reading! i’m playing with the thought of making a mini series just about the chaotic sunday adventures at the compound so a lot of domestic!avengers/au involving boyfriend!peter ofc so make sure to leave some feedback! xx

masterlist

taglist: @honeypie-holland  @nerdyandproudofitsstuff 

[ladyjaneasher-blog]

John had always been welcome at the Harrisons’ house; Louise, especially, treated him with warmth and jollity, playing the giddy hostess and feeding him endless helpings of beans and toast, a Scouse favorite that Mimi refused to make. But as the year wore on and his behavior grew more erratic��and more terrifying—even Louise was forced to reconsider her opinion. “By December, he was completely out of control,” recalls Jonathan Hague, who continued to drink and carouse with John almost every night that fall. “We had learned to drink together, but somewhere along the way he left me in the dust.” Hague attributes John’s excess to rage, which crept over him unexpectedly, like the dense Liverpool fog. “He seemed to be consumed by anger at that stage. He was jealous of other students, resentful about his mother’s death, and frustrated—trapped—by his situation at school. He was clearly mixed up—just lost—with no one willing or able to help him.” John always struck where he knew people would be most vulnerable, “mimicking their accents or a particular disfigurement,” according to Hague. There are countless stories about how John pulled up limping alongside a cripple or insisted on shaking hands with an armless veteran. “Most of his antics were harsh—but harmless,” says an art school classmate. But more than once, a sharp-eyed art student had to rescue John from an imminent beating, or buy a couple of pints for “an enraged neighbor” he’d insulted, as goodwill. Helen Anderson says that “he was embarrassingly rude to people, hurling insults at them, telling them to fuck off. It was terrible. Most of us eventually got fed up with him.” Friends looked to Paul to control the damage, but it was beyond even his know-how. When John “went off like that,” Paul usually waited for the storm to pass or humored John to keep him from turning up the heat. And unbeknownst to Paul, some considered his presence in these situations more problem than solution. “It was obvious that John had big reservations about Paul, too,” says Hague, who absorbed his friend’s harangues during their drinking binges. “Even then, there was great jealousy there. He was all too aware of Paul’s talent and wanted to be as good and grand himself. After a while, you could see it, plain as day: the subtle body language or remarks that flew between them. He wasn’t about to let someone like Paul McCartney pull his strings.” In the closing days of 1958, there seemed to be few options that could save John from himself. Julia was gone; Pete Shotton was preoccupied with police cadet training; Geoff Mohammed’s relationship with a cranky coed kept him on a tight leash; even Barbara Baker, his loyal moll, had thrown in the towel and taken up with another young man, to whom she would eventually get married. Everything brought the feeling of alienation into sharper focus. His friendships with Bill Harry and Stuart Sutcliffe provided a respite, although both students were committed to their art. Aside from Paul and George, there seemed to be no one to fill the encapsulating void.

the beatles: the biography, bob spitz

[ricardosousalemos]

Björk: Homogenic

Robed in silver satin, luminous against iridescent grey, Björk stares out as us from the cover of Homogenic. Filigreed flowers crawl across the background like frost crystals, mimicking the embroidery on her gown. The Alexander McQueen-designed garment looks vaguely Japanese, with a kimono-like sash; her elongated neck is wrapped in rings reminiscent of those worn by tribes in Burma and South Africa, while her pursed, painted lips smack of Pierrot. Behind narrowed lids, her eyes glaze like camera lenses. The longer you stare into those enormous black pupils, the more adrift you begin to feel. Beneath two tombstone-shaped slabs of hair, she appraises us coldly, her expression unreadable. She might as well be made of wax—or marble.

After the dewy naturalism of Debut’s sepia-toned portrait and the bullet-train rush of Post’s blurry postcard from the edge, McQueen and Nick Knight’s Homogenic cover showed Björk in a way viewers had never seen her before: at once ancient and futuristic, elegant and severe, part warrior queen and part cyborg—a picture of near-perfect symmetry rendered in colors of ice and obsidian and blood. The album followed suit. Trading the playful eclecticism of Debut and Post for distorted, hardscrabble electronic drums and warm, melancholy strings, it showcased a newly focused side of the musician while embracing all of her most provocative contradictions.

By 1997, when she released Homogenic, Björk had been a familiar face to pop fans for a decade. The Icelandic singer and composer had first appeared on many listeners’ radars in 1987, when the Sugarcubes’ surprise hit “Birthday” made actual stars out of a quintet whose entire raison d'être had been to lampoon pop. (Her countrymen, meanwhile, had been listening to her since 1977, when she recorded her debut album—a collection of covers translated into Icelandic along with a few original songs, including an instrumental written by Björk herself— at the tender age of 11.)

After a few whirlwind years with the band, she struck out on her own with 1993’s Debut, enlisting Nellee Hooper of Soul II Soul and Massive Attack to co-produce the album. It was a clean break, trading the Sugarcubes’ jangly alt-rock for the electronic sounds then coming out of the UK: house beats and basslines, trip-hop atmospheres, and the rippling textures of experimental techno, which she fleshed out with orchestral strings, big-band jazz, and a smattering of world music. Surprising even her record label, which scrambled to manufacture enough records to keep up with demand, it went all the way to No. 3 on the UK albums chart. On this side of the pond, some listeners were less thrilled with her new, electronic direction: Rolling Stone carped that Hooper had “sabotaged a
 ferociously iconoclastic talent with a phalanx of cheap electronic gimmickry,” adding, “Björk’s singular skills cry out for genuine band chemistry, and instead she gets Hooper’s Euro art-school schlock.”

Björk paid no heed to critics (including fellow Sugarcube Þór Eldon, now also her ex-husband) who were dismissive of her burgeoning interest in electronic music. Moving from Iceland to London, she threw herself into UK dance music, soaking up its club culture and collaborating with 808 State’s Graham Massey, Tricky, Howie B, and Talvin Singh, among others. She may have come to electronic music as an outsider, but she had good instincts: For remixes, she avoided the usual suspects in favor of some of the most adventurous artists on the scene: the Black Dog, Andrew Weatherall’s Sabres of Paradise, the junglist Dillinja, even Mika Vainio, aka Ø, of Finland’s scorched-earth analog noiseniks Pan Sonic. Today, the material gathered on her early remix collections—1996’s Telegram and also the lesser-known, cleverly (if not at all succinctly) titled The Best Mixes From the Album Debut for All the People Who Don't Buy White-Labels—holds up far better than the vast majority of remixes from that era, keenly balancing the songs’ essences with a restless experimental spirit.

Part of that is because Björk never saw remixes as a simple marketing gimmick: Her youthful study of classical music had taught her to think of remixes as a contemporary iteration of the longstanding concept of theme-and-variations. “When I think of that word remix, it’s recycled, like trash,” she told Rolling Stone. “But for me, the word remix means ‘alternative version.’ It is just another word… for a variation. It’s like Bach—his symphonies were not completely written out so every time he played them, they would be different.”

Björk’s unconventional instincts and her keen understanding of the hidden links between classical and experimental electronic music—she had interviewed Stockhausen the year before, in fact—guided her on Homogenic, as strange and uncompromising an album as pop music has produced. From the album’s opening bars, it’s clear that she’s on to something new. Björk’s approach to electronic music had never been conventional, but it had generally been tuneful, and her beats tended to keep one foot tapping in time to house music’s reassuring thump. Not so “Hunter,” which bobs atop fluttering, fibrillating kicks and snares, its reversed accordion glistening like an oil slick. Aphex Twin had toured as Björk’s opener after Post, and you can hear his rhythmic influence across the album: in the filtered breakbeats of “Jóga,” “Bachelorette,” and “5 Years”; the resonant zaps of “All Neon Like”; and the buzzing, headlong stomp of “Pluto.” (The engineer Markus Dravs assisted in the beat-making, as did LFO’s Mark Bell, who co-produced much of the album.) Throughout, drums crunch and sizzle, throwing up little clouds of dust with every impact. And with the exception of the relatively frictionless skip of “Alarm Call,” her beats are far more kinetic than most programmed rhythms, twitching and flexing like fistfuls of cellophane curling open.

After the stylistic zigzags of her first two albums, Björk was determined to create something more focused. “This is more like one flavor,” she told SPIN of the album. “Me in one state of mind. One period of obsessions. That’s why I called it Homogenic.” The working title, in fact, was Homogenous. The Icelandic String Octet, performing Eumir Deodato’s arrangements along with string parts she had written herself, was the glue that held it all together. The result is a strange, captivating mix of impulses, with seesawing drones exploding into lush, neo-classical passages. You can hear the influence of the Estonian minimalist Arvo Pärt, whom Björk had interviewed for the BBC the year before, on the slow, elegiac string harmonies of “Unravel”; conversely, the cut-up harp and strings of “All Is Full of Love” faintly mimic the burbling pulses of Steve Reich’s Music for 18 Musicians. “Even though my arrangements are quite experimental, I’m very conservative when it comes to song structure,” she told SPIN. “So it’s this beautiful relationship between complete discipline and complete freedom."

Many artists have attempted to fuse dance music’s rhythms with classical instrumentation; recently, between events like Haçienda Classical (a pops take on the hallowed Manchester dance-music institution) and Pete Tong and the Heritage Orchestra’s Ibiza Classics, the concept seems resurgent. But endeavors like those, and even Jeff Mills’ more highbrow attempts at orchestral techno, nearly always fail; it turns out that DIY electronic dance music and classical orchestras, a format that has barely evolved in over 100 years, are largely incompatible. Björk succeeded where so many others have failed by weaving the two inextricably together into an undulating fabric as flexible and as durable as Kevlar, processing the strings until it’s impossible to tell where the silicon ends and the catgut begins. You can hear the influence she exerted upon a young Alejandro Ghersi, aka Arca, who would go on to collaborate with her on 2015’s Vulnicura; his own music’s viscous textures and mutating forms would be unthinkable without the example set by Homogenic.

Blanketing the album’s electronic elements like a heavy layer of snow, Homogenic’s strings give the album a somewhat monochrome palette; it’s a dense listen, and in songs like “Jóga” and “Bachelorette” there’s not a lot of breathing room. But those rolling, subtly shaded contours periodically give way to jagged crags and extreme contrasts. This was not accidental: The album was meant as a kind of sound-portrait of her native Iceland. Björk envisioned beats “like rough volcanoes with soft moss growing all over it,” recalls Markus Dravs, whose percussive sketches formed the rhythmic foundation for her songwriting. “I wanted Homogenic to reflect where I’m from, what I’m about,” Björk told MTV. “Imagine if there was Icelandic techno! Iceland is one of the youngest countries geographically—it’s still in the making, so the sounds would be still in the making.”

Many of Björk’s collaborators over the years have discussed her tendency to describe music in unusually synaesthetic terms: Despite her intensive formal schooling in music—she began studying music at five, and was introduced to the work of modernist composers like Messiaen and Cage while still very young—her studio vocabulary, when she’s trying to get a point across, leans toward terms like “more angular” or “pink and fluffy.” So it’s hardly surprising that she would take formal inspiration from Iceland’s steaming geysers, igneous formations, and other geological features that lend themselves especially well to the visceral textures and rhythms of late-’90s electronica.

But there were also more personal reasons for her shift of focus. After years in London, she had become homesick for the land of her birth. She had traded a country with a population of fewer than 265,000 people for a city of some six million; not only that, she had been through hell and back in the years leading up to the album’s creation. A string of relationships with high-profile artists—the photographer Stephane Sednaoui, Tricky, jungle producer Goldie—had all fizzled. A physical altercation with a journalist outside Bangkok’s international airport had landed her in tabloids all around the world. And in September, 1996, a 21-year-old Miami pest control worker named Ricardo Lopez, furious about her relationship with Goldie—unbeknownst to him, they had actually broken up just days before—assembled a sulfuric acid bomb in a hollowed-out book and mailed it to Björk’s management before locking himself in his apartment, putting a loaded revolver in his mouth, and pulling the trigger, all in front of a video camera while Björk’s “I Remember You” played in the background. Police managed to intercept the device with no further casualties, but Björk was left shaken—concerned for her ability to protect those closest to her, including her son, and conflicted about her own openness with her fans. Returning to Iceland for the Christmas holidays, as she did every year, she fell under the island’s sway. Inspired by the country’s landscape, she became determined to make music that expressed a geological essence that was as raw as her own nerves.

You don’t need to know any of these details to connect with Homogenic, however; its emotional impact far transcends the biographical footnotes of its making. Lyrically, the record picks up themes she had already explored on her previous two albums—loneliness; sexual desire; desperate, even defiant love; the feeling of being a fish out of water—but her writing is more vivid than ever before. “I’m a fountain of blood/In the shape of a girl,” she bellows in “Bachelorette,” and later, “I’m a path of cinders/Burning under your feet.” The song is a kind of epic saga, and Björk has explained that it forms the third part of a loose trilogy with “Human Behaviour” and “Isobel”—a sort of Bildungsroman about Björk’s own adventures in the wider world.

Many lyrics take place as internal monologues grappling with her own contradictions. “How Scandinavian of me!” she yelps on “Hunter,” a desperate ode to self-empowerment, chiding herself for having believed she could “organize freedom.” (To Icelandic people, she later explained, Swedes and Danes are hopelessly regimented.) The distorted, minor-key “5 Years” is lovelorn and angry—for anyone who has ever been stuck in a dysfunctional relationship, is there a more relatable lyric than “You can’t handle love”?—while “Immature” channels broken-heartedness into a kind of empowering self-reprimand (“How could I be so immature/To think he could replace/The missing elements in me?/How extremely lazy of me!”). Despite the self-flagellation, it’s a quiet, tender song, with a beat carved out of a sigh; its twinkling arpeggios sound like a dry run for Vespertine.

When love turns up on this album, it is almost always something that is over or absent—a missed signal, a sailed ship. But she makes real poetry out of these small, bitter tragedies, and she occasionally even finds hope in them. In the soft, delicate “Unravel,” she sings of her heart unraveling like a ball of yarn while her lover is away. The Devil promptly steals it: “He’ll never return it/So when you come back/We’ll have to make new love,” she sings, in a strangely affecting conceit about the fickleness and resilience of love.

But the main theme running through the album is the wish to rush headlong into a life lived to the fullest—an unbridled yearning for the sublime. “State of emergency/Is where I want to be” she sings on “Jóga,” a song dedicated to her close friend and tour masseuse, in which churning breakbeats and slowly bowed strings mediate between lava flows and Björk’s own musculature—a kind of Rosetta Stone linking geology and the heart. “Alarm Call,” the closest thing on the album to a club hit (the Alan Braxe and Ben Diamond remix, in fact, is a storming breakbeat house anthem) shouts down doubt with the indomitable line, “You can’t say no to hope/Can’t say no to happiness,” as Björk professes her desire to climb a mountain “with a radio and good batteries” and “Free the human race/ From suffering.”

If you’re looking for catharsis, you won’t find better than the album’s final, three-song stretch: Following “Alarm Call” comes the incensed “Pluto”: “Excuse me/But I just have to/Explode/Explode this body off me,” she sings, launching into an ascending procession of wordless howls as buzzing synthesizers flash like emergency beacons. Finally, the quiet after the storm: The soft, beatless “All Is Full of Love,” a downy bed of harp and processed strings. The title is self-explanatory, the lyrics wide-eyed, nearly liturgical. It is a song about ecstasy, about oneness, about infinite possibility—and about letting go.

Björk’s voice is, without question, the life force of this music. You can hear her finding a new confidence on “Unravel”: The edge of her voice is as jagged as the lid of a tin can, her held tones as slick as black ice. A diligent student could try to transcribe her vocals the way jazz obsessives used to notate Charlie Parker’s solos, and you’d still come up short; the physical heft and malleability of her voice outstrips language.

Videos had long been an important part of Björk’s work, but they became especially crucial in building out the world of Homogenic. Compared to the sprawling list of collaborators on her first two records, she had pared down to a skeleton crew for this album; working with an array of different directors, though, allowed her to amplify her creative vision.

Chris Cunningham used “All Is Full of Love” as the springboard for a tender, and erotic, look at robot love. Michel Gondry turned “Bachelorette” into a meta-narrative about Björk’s own conflicted relationship with fame—an epic saga turned into a set of Russian nesting dolls. Another Gondry video, for “Jóga,” used CGI to force apart tectonic plates and reveal the earth’s glowing mantle below. At the end of the video, Björk stands on a rock promontory, prying open a hole in her chest—a pre-echo of the vulvic opening she will wear on the cover of Vulnicura—to reveal the Icelandic landscape dwelling inside her. In Paul White’s video for “Hunter,” a shaven-headed Björk sprouts strange, digital appendages, eventually turning into an armored polar bear, as she flutters her lids and wildly contorts her expression—a vision of human emotion as liquid mercury. Her use of different versions of her songs for several of these videos also contributed to the idea that the work was larger than any one recording—that these songs were boundless.

Björk’s initial idea for Homogenic was to be an unusual experiment in stereo panning. She imagined using just strings and beats and voice—strings in the left channel, beats in the right channel, and the voice in the middle.

It’s kind of a genius idea: an interactive, self-remixable album, a sort of one-disc Zaireeka, that goes to the heart of the dichotomies that have always made Björk—theorist and dreamer, daughter of a hippie activist and a union electrician—such a dynamic character. And while it’s easy to see why the concept never came to fruition—there’s no way such a gimmick could have yielded an album as richly layered as Homogenic turned out to be—it turns out to have been a prescient idea: the direct antecedent to Vulnicura Strings, which excised the drums and electronic elements of Vulnicura and focused on voice and strings alone.

In retrospect, it’s easy to see the way that Homogenic paves the way for later career triumphs like Vespertine and Vulnicura: In its formal audacity and sustained emotional intensity, it represents a phase shift from Debut and Post, fine though they were. Björk’s personality has seen her seesaw between extremes throughout her catalog, and after the shadowy intensity of Homogenic, Vespertine would end up a softer, gentler record. (Björk has said that she envisions “All Is Full of Love” as “the first song on Vespertine.”) Created in the glow of her nascent relationship with Matthew Barney, it is the domestic album, the comfort album, the beach-house-weekend album. But Homogenic is the one that complicated the picture of Björk, that threw aside big-time sensuality in favor of more volatile forces, revealed a glimpse of her deepest self for the first time.