Regina Spektor is so precious I want to fucking bite her. This is not supposed to be the point. As part of the East Coast's anti-folk movement, Spektor is ostensibly avant-garde and profound, her cutesiness some kind of highbrow, underground critique that isn't meant for my plebeian brain. But, to me, she just sounds precious. Sometimes, like on "Sailor Song," it's because her drunken piano and the dirty squall of her vocals create this tidy, quirky little sonic environment that makes me giggle. Other times, like on "Poor Little Rich Boy," it's because she sounds like Fiona Apple if someone let her eat and cleaned up her attempts at social commentary. Then I want to throttle Spektor because it is all just too, too perfect: accessible yet artsy, endearing yet razor sharp. As flaws go, though, "too perfect" ain't so bad -- it leaves you with quite a lot to sink your teeth into on Soviet Kitsch.
