Something in the Water

It seems to have all started with ABBA.
The first indications of the genetic mutation which predisposes the Swedes to being absolutely brilliant pop songwriters could be seen in the stream of albums released by Anni-Frid, Björn, Benny, and Agnetha during the 1970's. Nobody else could write songs as cunningly catchy as "Waterloo" or, lest we forget, "Dancing Queen". After they broke up in 1982, the mutation went dormant for about 15 years, but they were clearly an indicator of what was to come. Think of them as the Magneto or Charles Xavier of the Swedes.

The new class started to make themselves known with the Boy Band craze at the close of the last millennium. I could have said century, but Max Martin, the Swedish Svengali responsible for a remarkable array of hits ("...Baby One More Time", "It's My Life," "Since U Been Gone," "Raise Your Glass", and "I Kissed a Girl" are but a meager portion of his contributions to radio's Top 40 over the last 15 years), wrote half of the songs on Backstreet Boys' Millennium, one of the more successful albums of all time. I'm aware of Martin's contributions to pop music, and I'm still stunned every time I read his curriculum vitae.

One of Martin's first successes was in 1997 with, naturally, a fellow Swede, pop siren Robyn. Their powers combined to give the world "Show Me Love," which remains one of the better singles of the era. After a weak second album, Robyn took some time and returned five years later firmly in control of her own career. Working primarily with Swedish writer Klas Åhlund, the self-titled album she released remained an unequaled piece of art-pop perfection until her own series of Body Talk albums came out last year. It seems that the only person in Robyn's league at the moment is Robyn herself.

Martin is unapologetically commercial, and there's nothing wrong with that. ("It's Gonna Be Me" by 'N Sync just popped up on shuffle. It's Martin.) Robyn is beating out her own path, making music that should, by all rights, be hugely successful, but manages to stay just below the radar. Commercial viability aside, they are both clearly touched by the same blessed mutation as the mighty ABBA.

With her new album, Wounded Rhymes, Lykke Li makes a serious argument for being granted membership into this formidable and exclusive assemblage. While her first album, Youth Novels, was very good, and very catchy, it lacked the clear display of ambition necessary to gain full rights. If she wanted to bring any guests in to use the pool, Robyn, Max, or Klas would have to sponsor them. Wounded Rhymes is a different beast entirely. Where Youth Novels had a delicate, almost mock-low-fi aesthetic, Wounded Rhymes is a pop leviathan. It is loaded with dense, elephantine beats, perfectly conveyed by opener "Youth Knows No Pain" and standout "Get Some." Tucked in between the rumblers, the are gentle songs such as "Unrequited Love," a song in 6/8 which is played with appeasing lack of precision and cast Lykke as a girl at the corner of the bar, bemoaning her misfortune. The title is derived from the lyrics of "Sadness Is a Blessing," a sublime Phil Spector pastiche. It is loaded with unique electro-pop touches, some tucked way in the back of the mix. It is ear candy with a serious brain. It may be my favorite album to come out so far this year. Whether or not it holds that distinction until the end of the year, it makes me grateful for whatever those Swedes have been putting in the water.

Body Talk

Body Talk
(2010)
Robyn

At last, it is here.

At the beginning of 2010, Swedish avante-pop star Robyn announced that she would be releasing three albums over the course of the year. It had been five years since she released the kooky masterpiece Robyn, and she was ready to flush out the vaults. The albums, titled Body Talk Pt.1, Pt.2 and Pt.3, would be staggered over five or six months, and each would be a mini-album. The nine songs on Body Talk, Pt.1 were released to general critical praise in June, and it was the pop album of the summer. Not, you know, for the greater population, but those of us who were "hip" to it spent the summer dancing away to "Dancing On My Own," one of the best pop songs to come out of the last ten years. No joke. Pt. 2 dropped in September, and if its eight offerings didn't quite hold up as well, it was still a great EP.

It was announced about a month ago that Body Talk would be the name of an album, cherry-picking the five best songs from each of the first two mini-albums, and adding five more. That Robyn actually did pick the five best from each of the previous portions was a miracle in its own right. When the songs she chose were confirmed, it was a case of the new songs making or breaking the album. Considering the modern pop album, where there are typically four singles, one or two ballads, and six or seven inoffensive fillers, an album with nine killer (and I mean killer) tracks and one arguable filler (I don't have strong levels of affection for "Love Kills," but it's enjoyable enough), this was already going to be better than most, and possibly great. She could only fuck up.

Body Talk runs at an impossibly fast, taught 61 minutes, and it's packed to the point of bursting with radio smashes. That is, of course, if they get played on the radio, which they may not. Robyn doesn't make album tracks, really. She's here to make singles, and the efficacy with which she accomplishes her task is dizzying. It should be this easy for everyone. Pop is a formula known for not taking risks, and if Robyn isn't as inventive as she was on her self-titled offering back in 2005, she's certainly not resting on her laurels.

Highlights are impossible. This album feels like a Best Of collection. I haven't heard an album this calculatedly perfect from start to finish in a long time. The only disappointment is the Max Martin-penned "Time Machine." Considering that Martin has regularly provided the standout pop songs of the last 15 years ("Baby, One More Time," "Everybody (Backstreet's Back)," "Show Me Love" for Robyn in her late-nineties incarnation, "Since U Been Gone"), "Time Machine"'s status as the second weakest track on the album is truly a disappointment. The momentum was in favour of it being a masterpiece. Ah, well.

Each of the Body parts has a standout track. The first album had "Dancing On My Own," which is, I reiterate, the best thing to happen to dance-pop in the last ten years. The second album had "U Should Know Better," which hearkened back to the quirky and experimental nature of Robyn. "Dancing On My Own" could have been released by any artist, which is often my problem with pop music, the lack of individuality. "U Should Know Better," which, by the way, featured a brilliant guest turn from Snoop Dogg, could only come from Robyn. I was ready for the next addition to the trinity to be "Time Machine," but it's "Call Your Girlfriend." The way the melody stretches on, "And the only way her heart will mend/is when she learns to love again", defies description. It's four minutes of utter dance-floor bliss.

In short, Robyn has unleashed a masterwork that balances her natural tendency towards the odd with an unflinching eye for massive pop hooks and choruses. That she manages to still sound like Robyn throughout is a tribute to her talent, and her willingness to explore complex emotions and situations within the idiom of the pop hit. This album won't make Robyn the biggest pop star on the planet. But it really should.

Odds 'n Sodds 2

I received an exciting item in the mail today.

Jack White has always impressed me, though I'm not quite as enamored with him as I think I should be. I do respect his label, Third Man Records, and I like all the random releases they put out. I discovered last week that Laura Marling had released a limited edition single, and as I'm still in love with this woman's voice, I picked up a copy through the Third Man store.

It's a 7" with covers of "Blues Run the Game" and "The Needle and the Damage Done." They are more sparse than her records, both tracks stripped down to just an acoustic guitar and that voice. This is all fine with me, as her voice is the reason I'm head-over-heels for the woman. You can listen to both tracks here, courtesy of Pitchfork.

I'm sorry for the lack of real reviews in recent months, but I've found a lack of albums to review. Whether this is my failing or not is probably open to quite a bit of debate. Avey Tare, member of Animal Collective, has released a solo album, Down There, which I have listened to, but I'm still digesting it. The new Girl Talk album came out this morning, which I'm listening to now. Again, give me some time.

Robyn's Body Talk trilogy comes to a close today with the release of Body Talk. Originally expected to provide a third collection of ten new songs, Robyn has instead delivered a full album, comprising of ten tracks from the previous 2010 releases Body Talk, Pt. 1 and Body Talk, Pt. 2, in addition to five spankin' new songs. Most of the ten chosen holdovers are great (I'll express my disagreements when I review the album in the next week), and from what I've heard of them, the five new songs are very respectable. I saw Robyn play at the Metro on Saturday night, and she was brilliant. They oversold the venue, so there was no room to dance, but, had there been, it would have been every bit as good a show as when LCD Soundsystem tore the roof of the Aragon Ballroom two weeks ago. They were fucking great. No other word for that.

Finally for now, I've spent the last two weeks working my way through Stephen Sondheim's Finishing the Hat, a collection of the lyrics for his shows featuring his comments, notes, and stories. It's been a highly entertaining, informative, instructive, valuable read. If you're into musical theatre or the technique behind lyrics, you should give it a look.

Odds 'n Sodds 1

October has been a peculiarly fallow time. Only one album has come out this month that's crossed my radar, Sufjan Stevens' The Age of Adz, and I was underwhelmed. This is, I think, in large part to my preference for "a good song." This is an album of impressive music, but it's not something I'm keen to listen to again. Well-made, as all of Stevens' work is, just not for me. As such, I don't feel giving it a review is fair, since I couldn't possibly do it properly. Such is life.

I've been listening to a lot of Randy Newman lately, which is balancing well with the brief Robyn overdose I went through; her Body Talk, Pt. 3, a summation of the first two Body Talk albums, comes out in a month, and I'll certainly be reviewing that. Both previous installments are well worth your time. I'm partial to Body Talk, Pt. 1 as a whole, but since Pt. 3 is going to feature the five best tracks from each of the first two albums, in addition to five new ones, it bodes very, very well. It will be the best pop album of the year, and it could be the best one in the last ten years. No pressure, Robyn.

I just recently finished reading Alex Ross' Listen to This, a collection of essays and articles he's written over the course of his career as a music critic for The New Yorker. Ross is a remarkable writer. He has a gift for relating music to you in a way that makes it palpable. No individual writer is more responsible for making me seek out new music I haven't heard. Anyone can tell you why they like something, but it's a rare talent that can make you feel and share in their enthusiasm for things you have no prior knowledge of. I highly recommend both of Ross' books. The other, The Rest is Noise, is a survey of compositional music in the twentieth century.

I'm in the middle of reading Infinite Jest for the second time. It's still an exhaustive, busy, sprawling, and chiefly indulgent read, but it is hilarious, and staggering in its scope.