Robyn: Forever 21
- — September 26, 2011
Born from pop-music ephemera and raised on the global stage, Robyn’s dancefloor confections are shiny, pretty—and built to last.
The late-’90s teen wave was supposed to be a disposable cultural moment but instead it maintains a durable shelf life. It’s today’s dominant paradigm, the source of current pop culture mega-brands from Glee to Gaga. All those New Mickey Mouse Club alumni have crossed into other areas: Ryan Gosling and Justin Timberlake thrive in the movies; The Voice has given Christina Aguilera a new TV career. People insisted, fulminating, that Britney would shrink from the spotlight, but more than a decade later, the only time she’s left it is to hit Starbucks again—followed, naturally, by paparazzi.
Swedish pop singer Robyn made her first American splash in 1997, right around the teen wave’s Year Zero. Her success was minor in comparison with the above-named, and there’s not much chance we’ll see her diversify outside music and music videos, unless Swedish TV plans to follow her around with cameras. Thankfully, she’s hasn’t done reality television and seems unlikely to travel with an entourage.
There was wariness in Robyn’s gaze from the start. “Show Me Love,” her hit from 1997’s Robyn Is Here, begins, “Always been told I’ve got too much pride.” The chorus tells a different story: “Show me life, show me what it’s all about.” It was aimed at the teen audience; Robyn herself was a teen, working with Max Martin, the ’90s Phil Spector. Eventually she took control of her own music, releasing two albums in Sweden that never got much traction as imports. The import that piqued U.S. ears was her fourth album, 2005’s Robyn (for which I paid nearly $30 at Tower Records in Lower Queen Anne, R.I.P.). It’s brisk, funny, no-bullshit, her first words spoken, not sung: “What are you, stupid? I told you, no eating in my Jacuzzi. What’s wrong wit’ you?” The songs are equally individual, every bit as pop as “Show Me Love,” but with a twist. “Konichiwa Bitches” is the white-girl boast-rap of Ke$ha and Uffie’s collective dreams (“Don’t even get me started on my boom-boom-boom”); “Handle Me,” written and produced by Klas Åhlund of Teddybears, is like an even meaner first draft of Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable”: “You’re a selfish, narcissistic, psycho-freakin’, boot-lickin’, Nazi creep/And you can’t handle me.”
The word “Nazi” was backward-masked when Robyn was released in the U.S. three years later. The album had some extra tracks, in particular “With Every Heartbeat,” with Swedish producer Kleerup—a big English hit. The label that finally took a chance in America was the Interscope subsidiary Cherrytree, whose roster ranges from Far East Movement to Feist, and Robyn was a canny addition. She’s as broad and hooky as “Like a G6,” while appealing to people who like things a little more homespun, but still forthright and persuasive—the “1234” crowd.
Robyn makes pop, no doubt about it. But her stylized persona gives her special appeal to rock fans, as do her forthright lyrics—even if she doesn’t write them. (Picking songs is an art, as any fan of Elvis or Sinatra is aware.) Robyn is audacious, the work of someone who sees pop as a place to play and to make hits, but 2010’s Body Talk ups the ante. Listen to it once casually and you hear why Robyn wound up opening for Katy Perry, the bizziest ingénue since Alicia Keys. Concentrate and you’ll hear a lot more going on. And make no mistake, a lot is.
Body Talk—not the original EPs but the subsequent full-length that incorporated them and some extra material—is straight-up electro, notably so even for a catalog not shy on robotic texture. Its feel is very mid-’80s. Yet it doesn’t seem retro, even as it begins with “Dancing on My Own,” whose conceit goes back (at least) to Smokey Robinson’s “I’ve Got to Dance to Keep from Crying.”
“Dancing on My Own” is a perfect, from-memory cross between early Madonna and mature New Order, with a vocal to match, keening and mournful. The crystalline synths of “Call Your Girlfriend” could have been the work of a cult act like French producer Fred Falke, but here they’re secondary to the scenario: “It’s time you had the talk,” she admonishes her new man. She’s ready to make it serious, and he’d better be too.
She’s even more powerful at the other end of the spectrum. “Hang with Me” may be the first great pop song about the emotional reality of casual hook-ups. “Don’t fall heedlessly, recklessly in love with me,” she warns. If he does, she’ll break his heart. Her suitor’s reward: “If you do me right, I’m gonna do right by you/And if you keep it tight, I’m going to confide in you.” Seriously, who needs reality TV?
