Sour Cherry

The drum machine enters first — a hard, metronomic snap that establishes the tempo with no apology. What follows is spare to the point of severity: a guitar riff that is more texture than melody, a bass line that functions almost percussively, and Alison Mosshart's voice sitting at the top of the mix with the authority of someone who has decided not to compete for your attention. "Sour Cherry" operates on repetition and restraint, the verse sections stripped down so completely that the slight opening-up of the chorus feels, by contrast, enormous. Mosshart's delivery is smokier and more drawling than outright powerful — she sounds like she is telling you something that should be obvious, and the slight impatience in her phrasing is more compelling than any amount of vocal acrobatics would be. The song has been used in advertising and film because it reads as immediately cinematic, but that readiness is deceptive — the song is too weird and too minimal to be background music for long. The emotional register sits between desire and detachment, two states the Kills rarely fully separate. Lyrically it circles around a kind of poisoned sweetness, the thing that attracts and corrodes simultaneously. This is music for driving through a city you do not entirely trust, late enough that the streets have started to empty and everything takes on a slightly fever-dream quality.