Robyn at First Avenue
For some types of music, sheer volume is a prerequisite for true understanding. This seems obvious for heavy metal and even some classical music—especially the kind involving cannons—but it’s perhaps less obvious when it comes to pop. Nevertheless, really epic dance-pop demands adherence to the proviso emblazoned on the back of The Jeff Beck Group’s album Truth: “Played loudly gives maximum value.” Robyn is no exception, and her show at First Avenue last night gave ample proof.
Taking the stage in the midst of exploding strobe lights, disembodied robotic voices, and the cyclonic swirl of synths generated by her Doublemint-esque band (two keyboardists, two drummers), Robyn looked every inch the elfin pixie. The ripped-away jeans layered over tight black leggings made it look like she’d gotten in a knife fight with a sewing machine, but the odd outfit and spartan stage setup (in comparison to most pop divas’ shows) quickly took a backseat as she launched into “Time Machine,” from the last installment of her album-in-triptych, Body Talk. She undulated with grinding intensity through most of the set, much to the delight of the crowd, which seemed to be about 90 percent gay men. This facet of Robyn’s audience made more and more sense as the set progressed.
Robyn’s songs are largely about two things: love and telling people to get out of her way. And the songs that are about love are divided into two basic subcategories: sticking together in the face of adversity, and getting over a broken heart by getting back up and sticking it to whomever wronged you. In almost all cases, her songs carry a distinctly outside-looking-in vibe, and the message of self-reliance and solidarity seemed to have a particular resonance for the largely GLBT crowd.
Sticking mainly to tracks from Body Talk, Robyn made the great songs bigger and more raucous (“Call Your Girlfriend” and “Dancing On My Own” drew the largest roars of recognition—and delivered) and turned the less substantial songs (the directionless-on-record “We Dance To The Beat” and “Don’t Fucking Tell Me What To Do”) into relentless bangers in a nearly seamless string of dance-floor abandon. She left no killer jam unturned, saving “Konichiwa Bitches” from her self-titled album, and even her 1997 hit “Show Me Love,” for the encores. The only disappointment is that the only dub jam we got was “Dancehall Queen,” which was nevertheless one of the evening’s high points.
From a purely technical standpoint, she also made it clear that she can flat-out sing, unlike a lot of other dance-pop artists. It was clear in a lot of places that the backup vocals were not from her band, but rather from a track, but she wasn’t trying to hide that fact, and it was always obvious when she was working it live. She seemed to only gain in power as the show wore on, sweating up a storm and pushing a hand through her short-cropped blonde hair until it was hopelessly disheveled by the time she came back for one, then two, then three encores. When she announced that Minneapolis was the best night of the tour so far, it may have just been the kind of thing a performer says in every city (we’ll have to check with The A.V. Club in Milwaukee), but at least last night, it felt like the truth.
