Michael's Cut

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Erika de Casier has long established her brand of quiet love songs. The ones that evoke glasses of Prosecco on the nightstand, the comforter showered in petals. Or a bouquet sent to the office, with a letter detailing their next date. Essentials and Sensational define these intimate spaces, a luxury she upholds while coiling the telephone cord with her fingers. Still posits similar status, though a new contract a la Matrix comes into development. In a world spoiled by the gadgetries and digital realm, only self-agency reigns king. The singer’s body restrained, the trench coat overtaking her frame, sunglasses shielding her gaze, and a hidden hand clenched to her chest. It’s not whether de Casier’s hiding from someone; it’s who exactly.

Still acts on the Danish starlet’s confessions all while camouflaging into the ambiance. Her actions and thoughts percolate as she shares about her love interest as much affection as does growing concern. “Right This Way” allures you into her penthouse, tailored like a labyrinth. Aged cheeseboards in one room, a DJ playing in the other, yet she leads you away. Janet Jackson- and Aaliyah-coded R&B emerges, de Casier cooing in and out of discovery. “Do you like it like that?” repeats under thick drums pacing like her heels clasping the ground, and strings gently plucking each note. Though fleeting, this state of sensuality’s explored into the humid grooves of “Home Alone” and “Test It,” heightening the sexual stakes, softening the blow with a crisp mouthfeel.

“Lucky” strays from the temptation in which “Home Alone” thrives. Perhaps last night’s warmup could twist an emotional knot, but sunlight has no place in a Copenhagen winter. The laughs that ready a scattered drum-and-bass set interlock, and she’s resting her spirits in a fire bound to subside. A turnaround where de Casier, joyous in her perspective, becomes the victim of her own utopia. “The Princess” loads the burden of ambition held hostage to burnout and a lack of time. A downcast guitar accompanies her sorrows, and she stresses the painful adage about the inability to have everything at once. What a ballad we’ve yet to hear from her until now.

By this point, hip hop takes over in Still’s most commanding listens. “Ice’ returns to chilled MTV Music throwbacks: blinged-out jewelry mixed with modern-age ghosting. Think Age Ain’t Nothin’ But a Number, but with Andre Gainey of They Hate Change fame as the male counterpoint. Meanwhile, “Ooh” stirs an attraction gone insatiable, a possible lead for a new TMZ report. De Casier flexes TLC-like charisma with a hasty synth steaming the groove, beats dirty enough for you to undress. And “My Day Off” slowly reintroduces crunk music during an argument about boundaries, her property and agency not yours to manage. As the bass amplifies, her aggression reveals self-concept. “You don’t own me,” she asserts, composed in her pajamas, slamming the front door and returning to her skincare routine.

By the latter half of Still, cold raindrops splash off a sea of raincoats, and the water trickles to the puddles recoiling mud onto your pants. Despite this frigidness, it feels like de Casier’s purging herself in nature, an act to remove the ugliness in her life. “Believe It” understates trip-hop rhythms while she coos about reciprocation. Contrast the hip-hop influences for an acoustic ballad in “Anxious,” and you’re stuck with a pang of fatigue, though it’s the most fleeting segment on the LP. “Ex-Girlfriend” and “Toxic” (pretend to) accept the worst parts of their relationship, and indulges in the confrontations. “Ex-Girlfriend” in particular ceases the niceties with a spacious alté percussion and her deep register caressing the mic, all to tease, “It’s just too bad I’m your ex-girlfriend / you gotta be missing me.”

The penultimate “Twice” journals her initial feelings post-breakup: memories and experiences you’ve shared become tainted with mold, and promises now rotten fruit. A spoken word from Blood Orange questions how love can be so blind, rippling a joyful past with today’s defeat, bitter about her favorite foods and places connoted to her ex-lover. However, “Someone” finally surrenders her pride, the Cape Verdean musician acknowledging her share of bad words in the breakup. Beyond the heated exchanges, her voice delicately travels through this featherweight pulse, keyboard notes once again chilly, yet an odd sensation of warmth filters out. It’s these moments when de Casier’s quiet nature deserves skepticism; detailed writing paired with an airy yet faint texture, and the sonic progression running, well, still. 

Nevertheless, the record sees maturation as the ultimate form of stability, hope withstanding any predicament surfacing. Because we know the woman with numerous aspirations will achieve everything – but not right now. “Someone” ends with her tending to her pain, momentarily being someone else until the breakup trauma dissolves. Maybe she’s not hiding from her past herself, rather closing herself off from the public eye, a season when self-care’s her only priority. That’s something you can always respect, so take your time, Erika. Let yourself heal.

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