One afternoon, Apple’s older sister, Amber, arrived to record vocal harmonies.

Near the front door of Apple’s house stood a chalkboard on wheels, which was scrawled with the title of the upcoming album: “Fetch the Bolt Cutters.” Apple’s new album, whose completion she’d been inching toward for years, was a tricky topic, and so, during the week that I visited, we cycled in and out of other subjects, among them her decision, a year earlier, to stop drinking estrangements from old friends and her memories of growing up, in Manhattan, as the youngest child in the “second family” of a married Broadway actor. Still, a lot can go on without leaving home. (Her song “Largo” still plays on the club’s Web site.) She’d cancelled her most recent tour, in 2012, when Janet, a pit bull she had adopted when she was twenty-two, was dying. Five years ago, Apple stopped going to Largo, the Los Angeles venue where, since the late nineties, she’d regularly performed her thorny, emotionally revelatory songs. These days, the singer-songwriter, who is forty-two, rarely leaves her tranquil house, in Venice Beach, other than to take early-morning walks on the beach with Mercy. The first day that I visited, last July, it was set to MSNBC, which was airing a story about Jeffrey Epstein’s little black book. Worn out, they flopped onto two daybeds in the living room, in front of a TV that was always on. Apple tugged on a purple toy as Mercy, a pit-bull-boxer mix, gripped it in her jaws, spinning Apple in circles. This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.įiona Apple was wrestling with her dog, Mercy, the way a person might thrash, happily, in rough waves.

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