I lean back and press play. A choir of angels flap their platinum wings. Their voices coo like tuned turbines. Boucher leads the cherubim with her liquid-mercury voice. It is beautiful, and incontrovertibly Grimes.
I leave the paradisiacal halls of laughing and not being normal and see the white-with-sunlight shores and skyscrapers of California. The song is synthetic and sexy-unreal, with its plastic…
