Do we seem to be experiencing a run on pop starlets lately?
Like the buffalo of the Great Plains, pretty, club-oriented singers who delivered only the best sugar coated singles once seemed to overpopulate the music world. Whenever one fell out of favor or became -- shudder to think -- too old, a handful of newbies with a bigger voice, better dance routines or fewer clothes were always ready to take her place.
But, from the way they've been dropping recently, you might think iTunes and illegal downloading have made dancing divas an endangered species. While Beyonce, Mariah Carey and Kelly Clarkson still seem to be running strong, most others have fallen by the wayside. Christina Aguilera can't be as dirty as she used to be -- she's a mommy now. Jessica Simpson has given up singing to become something like a professional girlfriend. The undulations of Shakira's hips still have the power to hypnotize us, but if only her singing could do the same. Poor Kylie Minogue's career has never recovered from her health troubles. The musically schizophrenic Pink has seen her album sales steadily weaken in the U.S. Even the grand dame of this archetype, Madonna, has a new record out, but she's really another generation's superstar. And the less said about Britney Spears right now, the better off we'll be.
So it seems that Swedish songstress Robyn has chosen an ideal time to make her American debut. Already a dominating, pop-music fixture in Scandinavia, Robyn's self-titled album is an electro-pop smash that's guaranteed to wow fickle fans in search of a fresh face who isn't tarnished by Whitney-like behavior and hasn't previously surrendered herself to become the pawn to whoever is the hottest producer. "Robyn" not only boasts a slew of tracks destined to be mega-hits, but the disc firmly establishes Robyn as a unique musical personality on this side of the Atlantic. It's an announcement that the next American pop star has just offered herself for adoption.
For many music fans and musicians, the prospect of striving to be or admitting you like a pop star is anathema. Rebellious rock bands and outlaw rappers might satisfy many fans' need for artistic authenticity, but pop stars -- male and female alike -- is where the major record labels have always made most of their bling. (The rewards of their mega-platinum sellers have in turn subsidized and compensated their losses with more credible artists.) Likewise, the strong ratings for Fox's "American Idol" prove there's an enormous audience looking for easily digestible party music and sappy ballads.
On first glance, Robyn doesn't look like a star. She appears like a less buxom, more demure version of Pink. Both Robyn and Pink share the same bravado on the mic, but the Swede has a girlie, Gwen Stefani-ish voice and is less crudely confrontational in her songs. And like Stefani, Robyn has similar stylistic inclinations, incorporating flavors of electronica, hip-hop, dub, dancehall and glam-rock into her dance-floor jams and vocal delivery. While Robyn clearly draws on antecedents in our recent pop music memory, like any good performer, her presentation minimizes the overt-ness of her copycatting and tricks us into succumbing to her space-age-sounding charms.
The audio environment that Robyn and her chief collaborator and fellow Swede Klas Ahlund create on this record is sunny, self-indulgent and thoroughly futuristic. (This is a tad ironic in that the record was first released in Sweden in 2005, but only now is being released in the U.S.) These songs are pristine, studio-crafted marvels that use ever gadget and gimmick to sharpen their listen-ability and expand the cuts' chances to appeal to a wide demographic. Of course, Robyn's personality proves the music's best salesperson.
She varies her performance style on the mic from cut to cut. She sounds playfully flirtatious even when she's doing some hip-hop boasting on "Konichiwa B******." Her tact compensates for her rhymes, which are cutesy and a little clumsy but certainly a mark better than someone like Mickey Avalon. During "Should Have Known," Robyn's crooning is convincingly heartbroken and shows an emotional vulnerability that rings true because it isn't overly dramatic. She transforms herself into a modern-day Donna Summer on "Crash and Burn Girl," murmuring and sexily cooing like the plastic queen of a retro-disco dance party.
Her producers make the singer's job easier with some first-rate material. Swedish electronica duo the Knife transports Robyn back to the '80s with "Who's That Girl." The song shares the same title as the Madonna hit, but this song is darker, more formidable and less insipid. Robyn sings with desperation as a brilliant rhythm of programmed tribal beats palpitate. As she pleads about a feeling of claustrophobic pressure, she's continuous hemmed in by whirling wave of synthesizers that wash around her voice.
The '80s revival continues on "With Every Heartbeat," where Robyn and co-songwriter Andreas Kleerup build upon a moaning fog of synthesizers that mimic old-school New Order. Layers of keyboards pile on -- some humming, others popping and plinking -- to provide an unflinching background for Robyn's mournful but resilient vocal line.
The army of keyboards and samplers that are at her and the producers' clutches dominate "Cobrastyle," where they seem to impersonate a serrated, glam-era guitar and a xylophone at the same time. To keep up with the beat, Robyn adopts a near patois as she recites the songs' rhymes. She isn't rapping, but she's not really singing either. The song is remarkable in that what she has done is essentially conceive what would be a prized jam at any Jamaican block party, but move it's debut to the safe confines of a 22nd century lunar colony. One can imagine lasers and aliens gyrating in spacesuits getting down to its irresistible funk.
The record's most striking track is "Handle Me," not only because of it has the potential to be a monster hit, but also because it's an interesting combination of contradictory impulses. It's obviously seen by Robyn and her handlers as the album's big single (a remix is included at the end of the CD) and the song's arrangement and instrumentation bear out that they've lovingly connived it to be a perfectly contemporary bit of ear candy. First, there's the thudding beats that immediately draw listeners. Then, there's the serious-sounding viola stalking the tune's main melody, followed by the cheesy guitar flourishes during the heavenly chorus.
At the same time, however, there's a brutality and directness to the lyrics that graduate this from being mere pap into a feminist anthem. Robyn sounds undeniably sweet as she defies and then details the seedy exploits of a controlling bar owner who seeks to be her paramour. She trounces him in a manner we're not accustomed to in normally breezy confines of pop music. Her character assassination of this clod is so scathing that it rivals the brutishness that she attributes to her subject. The point is clear: Robyn doesn't play.
And we should be glad that Robyn doesn't play around, or worse, treat what might seem overly saccharine and ephemeral as such. These songs are a labor of love. Pop stars make music that's usually so easily pleasing and unashamedly inclined toward corporate betterment that we might look at them as just craven messengers. Their susceptibility to trends also can make them appear largely disposable, too. But the best of them can overcome the changes in fashion and make music that transcends purely commercial interests. Poppy artists from Motown through Madonna have achieved a degree of respectability in such institutions as the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Robyn's disc is flawless start on such a journey. While other divas might be faltering, she is one who's proving pop music still has its champions.
For More Info: Previous Columns:Note: David's music column, Soundbytes, appears Wednesdays in our Entertainment section. He welcomes your questions and commentsDistributed by Internet Broadcasting. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
