LIVE REVIEW:

RÖYKSOPP
Music Hall of Williamsburg
20 March 2011


If last night’s concert was your introduction to Norwegian duo Röyksopp, you probably think they’re nothing more than overgrown, sack-wearing, robot-themed, electric nerd-jam. What was that set list anyway? They seem unable to decide what kind of band they are: dance, electro-funk, pop, chillwave or some kind of techno-classical orchestra. But—if you already knew the kind of 21st century oddity that is Röyksopp, you probably danced your ass off.

Röyksopp’s set began with “Eple” in a kind of demented, Scandinavian nightmare. The guitarists heads covered in bogeyman-ish pillowcases, smoke all around, the droopy pings of their 2001 single. I was certain the target audience was meant to be tripping the light fantastic. Either because of the packed venue or druggish inhibitions, the crowd remained fairly frigid on the dancefront. It was clear that fans were hear to listen.

Their eclectic set included club hits (“Girl and the Robot”), a classical Steve Reich piece, and a bizarre version of Kate Bush’s “Wuthering Heights,” covered for reasons unbeknownst to me and, I gather, the rest of the crowd. It gave me a dual glimpse of Röyksopp as well-read musicologists and childish electro-geeks. In the studio, their production has ranged from minimal (“The Drug”) to manic (“Happy Up Here”), so channeling the Steve Reich strain is hardly a surprise for someone familiar with their work, though it feels alien to a concert hall packed with eager fans. Every time I felt the rush of a final song, they followed it with a mellow head-bopper. The resulting rhythm of the concert was jarring. Perhaps a re-ordering of songs was in order.

Visually, Röyksopp found inspiration in a robotic steampunk element. They revealed a poly-optic helmet with changing lights during “Girl and the Robot.” Svein Berge sported a wide band of LED lights on his wrist that drew ghostly whisps of white as he drummed. And in the second encore, their singer wore an otherwordly shawl of indeterminate material and glowing work-goggles. Röyksopp could easily have been another Two Dudes Behind Machines Show, which seem to be rampant with the popularity of computer-generated music. They, at least, tried to combat that stereotype and had a good grasp for the intimate arrangement of their venue.

Röyksopp’s show at the Music Hall was nothing if not a test of their musical versatility, ranging from minimal jam to pounding beats. The orchestral vibe of the audience was a bit off-putting at first, but once the crowd warmed to the idea that listening can also happen through movement, the night ended with a rush of adrenaline.

Scandinavia scores again.

ALBUM REVIEW:

ROBYN — BODY TALK



Every year, there’s a collective crowning of the reigning Pop Princess. From Madonna to Pink, Her tracks elicit a sigh of sweet relief in anywhere from gay dives to beer-soaked frat bars—I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen a bro with a Sig Ep sweatshirt raise his pint to Rihanna. Usually, Her songs are dance-y, fun, but hardly clever. Until recently. I’d like to nominate a new candidate for the position: Robyn.

Robyn’s fifth studio album Body Talk has been out since November, and though it may be bubblegum pop, in sixth months it hasn’t lost it’s flavor. Working with brilliant producer Klas Åhlund, the album feels like a search for the perfect electronic music. The anthem-like intro to “Dancing On My Own” begins and everyone screams. God, it’s catchy. But more importantly, this is much-welcomed, intelligent dance pop (IDP?) with a sense of humor that never forgets its bubblegum, love-fever roots. And, at the heart of it, is an open meditation on the form.

Released over many months in three mini-albums, the project has kept Robyn directly in the global spotlight for seven months and counting, a challenge in the age of artistic inundation. After a five-year hiatus, Robyn has been touring around the world since June, months before she released the full album. Each mini-album of Body Talk contains acoustic versions of single-to-come or bonus tracks that don’t appear on the final album, some of which are must-listens and “Album Only” on iTunes (evidence of Robyn’s business savvy). Not to mention that the album is on Robyn’s own label, Konichiwa Records, which she created for her last album in a bold move of independence, positioning the pop star as her own creative boss.

Robyn’s voice is consistently—there’s no other word for it—cool that she could be rattling off ingredients for a Quaker Oats box and turn it into a delicious hit. Fortunately, the lyrics never settle for stupidity. Robyn rattles off a list of complaints in “Don’t Fucking Tell Me What To Do” and she invites us to dance to her own seductive headache. Nothing too serious and always full of attitude. “We Dance to the Beat” is a comparable track, but uses a combination of abstract lyrics for fuel. This is poetry set to a classic structure:

We dance to the beat of the continents shifting under our feet,…
We dance to the beat of a new, better, faster breed,…
We dance to the beat of radioactivity blocking the exits,…
We dance to the beat of false math and unrecognized genius,…
We dance to the beat of distorted knowledge passed on,…
We dance to the beat of a distant rumble,…
And it’s loud
And proud.

Rather ominous for a club anthem, don’t you think? Robyn rejects the hackneyed pop plot to embrace a universal human experience. She attempts to connect electro-pop to the sublime.

A stretch? Maybe. But brava anyway.

The album often calls attention to itself, referring to a momentary structure of the song. “Include Me Out” begins with a computerized voice asserting that “It is really very simple. Just a single pulse repeated at a regular interval,” after which the pulse begins. “Don’t Fucking Tell Me What To Do” highlights the kick drum that thumps directly afterward. And though I can find only unofficial versions of her lyrics (there are no liner notes) which quote a verse of “Indestructible” as “fall to the floor,” it sounds more like she’s saying “It’s just us, we ignore the crowd dancing/Four-to-the-floor/Beats in my heart./Put your hands on my hear.” Four-to-the-floor is the technical term for the rhythmic dance-beat of the song, and the lyric is followed by a textbook example of four-to-the-floor, as if instructing. Form and feeling intertwine to create an emotional spread of up-tempo tracks.

And there’s something for everyone. Robyn’s orchestral version of “Indestructible” (which preceded the electro-dance single on the final album) feels like Björk’s Brodskey Quartet version of “Hyperballad.” There’s something enriching on both sides about transferring a song from one genre to another. The choice to include the string arpeggios (albeit, as synth) in the instrumental bridge of the single is sheer brilliance, and has the kind of perfect musical structure of Classical period symphonies. Like Mozart, if he were DJ Mozart, and did way too much E.

That said, a few of the tracks are overproduced. The mini-album version of “Dancing On My Own” has a raw, marrow-splitting quality that’s lost in the radio version, with it’s shimmering, saccharine beginning that undermines any gravity of the song. This isn’t Aqua, and the production levels should reflect that. Similarly, “Time Machine” falls flat in a series of lovesick heartbreakers. Maybe it’s the witless and relentless references to Back to the Future, or the lack of any real stakes in the song (just talk to the guy?), or her cute giggle at the end that seems to override the entire scenario. It seems out of place.

Even so, Body Talk sets the bar for the future of dance pop. In an age of albums riddled with brilliant collaborations (cf. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy), Robyn’s tracks with Royksopp, Snoop Dogg, and Diplo feel cutting-edge. Following in its wake, Lady Gaga’s new single, “Born This Way,” feels like a tired track that was cut from the Queer As Folk soundtrack. Madonna did it better, Grace Jones did it better, even Christina Aguilera did it better. And now, Robyn is doing it better. Let’s hope that pop producers continue to brainwash us with such smart stuff.

three newyork quatrains

1. Wonderful Town, 1987

Buildings shoot up
straight to the sky.
Men shoot up
smack and die.

2. A Letter to the Island

My apologies
for my species.
We act like trees
grow on trees.

3. What'sTheDifferenceBetweenAManhattanApartmentAndACoffinTheRent

Billboards aplenty,
allegro pace.
After NewYork,
heaven is space.

found instructions 1

close cover
strike gently

a memphis soundscape

the crickets, cicadas croaking and heat settling onto the pavement and cars rolling by with the windows down and hip-hop playing from cars with the windows down and the thermostat catching its breath and a distant gunshot, imagined, but heard.

sadie

I guess I’ve stopped marching from lover to lover, stuck loving too easy. It’s a connection, the factor of surprise and intrigue, the facts that force you to forget the effort of meeting someone new. The naturalness.

Saturday night, I knocked ‘em back, miller light and miller light and vodka shot and shotgunned miller light, forgetting I’d had no dinner. I’d had no dinner, an apple maybe, an apple and a ginger ale, and beer after beer after beer and one or two swigs from a glass bottle labeled Godiva—I remember holding it and shouting DRUNK CHOCOLATE!? to the alleyway and in the next moment the chocolate was, in fact, drunk. I crawled inside the screen door and fell to my knees. My face slid across Dinah’s checkered tile and stopped just short of her cat.

Sadie. Sadie the orange cat who's sometimes dressed in a lilywhite tutu. She likes them. No, no living creature except the deeply disturbed human would ever enjoy wearing a tutu. She jingles the jingle of dulled bells when she moves or even twitches and at the sight of my sideways drooped-down face, she squints. She meows. I meow. Her eyes narrow so close I’m not sure if she’s closed them.

Sadiesadiesadie I say sadie girl let’s make a connection, come on girl, Sadiesadiesadie, pretty girl, pretty orange girl I put my paw out now you put our yours. My hand slides slowly forward until it’s one foot from her paw. I haven’t touched the cat yet—I don’t want to become that drunk guy who picks up cats and flings them across the kitchen—I'm not sure if that’s a stereotype, but I’ve seen it too often that it is for me.

Sadiesadiesadie, comeown, comeown.

Her eyes flash wide, for a second only, and with one paw she slaps the back of my hand and darts down the hallway, out of sight.

I remember few things afterward:

Sadieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I remember thinking ha, I know this this feeling is familiar but usually comes with dawn.

I remember vomiting apple and ginger ale—red and green, I hurled out the holly like it was Christmas up and down the alley.

Can you stand, baby?

I watched a dog the next morning lap it up.

Is that what it takes to make a connection now, turning your insides out?

So tonight, I will crawl into an empty full bed, setting on the floor my spleen, my spine, my heart, lungs, stomach, my (recovering) liver, my esophagus, the most intimate organs in my body to make room for myself, turning everything inside out so I can sleep with the vulnerability of a newborn baby. And in the morning, I will fill myself with my own organs which I’d set on the floor the night before and will hit the ground before the sun does, feeling nothing more than the weight of my own parts, and saying hello to every everyone.

the scream

I was walking along a path with two friends—the sun was setting—suddenly the sky turned blood red—I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence—there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city—my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety—and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

—Edvard Munch


Tonight I sensed an infinite scream pass through nature, and having only the fragments of a disco ball to anchor me, i shoved my hands deeper and deeper into my pockets until i turned my jacket inside out--the sky was the most blood-red shade of black tonight, I knew.