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I am rarely so moved by an album as to compel me to write about it the moment I finish listening to it for the first time.

Woman, by Canadian/Danish duo Rhye, couldn't have come to me at a more opportune time. And it's so funny that it's titled as such, because there couldn't be a better time for one's femininity to be adored than at a time when one is weakest and incapacitated by this very woman-ness. (Ha. Subtle.)

The songs are so clean and so crisp, in both an aural and conceptual sense. The beats are put together so evenly, almost like an exact science, and there is a precision in the lyrics that evoke a calculated, but slightly quivering honesty. There is a sense of quietness and of calm all throughout, but it is contrasted by the bold declarations of emotions that permeate through the entire album. And just rightly so. It was written at a time where Mike Milosh, who does the surprisingly gentle and soft vocals, was falling in love with the woman who will eventually become his wife. "Open" and "The Fall" are such great openers; and the album aptly ends with the title song "Woman" which is a litany of adoration to the beloved, and a flawless one at that. It is not entirely a love album, in that there are no grand gestures and fireworks here, and it is not entirely a sex album, because there is no overt objectification of the flesh.

Perhaps, Woman is better described as an album of intimacy. It is about the shake between the thighs, the sound of the sighs, the shape left on the sheets, the scent lingering between fingers, and the riffs that play in between. It is all of those quiet moments, and the loudness with which they ring inside our chests. There is a softness in the way affirmations leave the mouth and the skin, without so much the need to declare a permanence -- only an attachment.

And sometimes, that's enough.