St. Vincent perfects her fractured, futuristic pop vision on Masseduction

In a recent Q&A for Billboard, St. Vincent’s Annie Clark talked about why, despite her recent foray into filmmaking, she’s not all that interested in acting in front of the camera. “I don’t mind the performance aspect of it, because that’s kind of interesting,” she explains. “But I really don’t like the lack of control. I want to direct stuff, because you have control.” The statement shouldn’t be remotely surprising for fans of Clark’s music, even cursory ones. St. Vincent albums thrive on rigor—obsidian-like tones, meticulous arrangements, elliptical lyrical tropes—and thematic structure. Clark creates her own internal logic, ensuring each record inhabits a unique, Narnia-like universe.
Masseduction is no different; in fact, this latest record is Clark’s best, most cohesive musical statement yet. Lyrically, the record revolves around moments when a façade of control starts to crumble—when anxiety starts to overwhelm (“Fear The Future”); when drugs used to regulate moods become an emotional and physical crutch (“Pills”); when pleasurable things become painful memories (“New York”). There’s a sense of futility to this slippage, as if turning into what you fear (or hate) is inevitable. “I can’t turn off what turns me on,” she intones repeatedly on the Bowie-esque title track, a glossy treatise on fame’s seductive qualities and the catch-22 of online instant gratification.
Still, Masseduction leaves plenty of room for equivocation within this fatalism. “I am a lot like you / Boys / I am alone like you / Girls,” she trills on the perforated robo-pop standout “Sugarboy,” a defiant statement on gender and sexual fluidity. And the protagonist of “Slow Disco” realizes that they totally dodged a bullet by leaving an unhealthy relationship early. “Am I thinking what everybody’s thinking? / I’m so glad I came but I can’t wait to leave?” Clark asks, non-rhetorically.
Masseduction also smartly acknowledges the emotional complexities involved with moving on, especially when the fissures aren’t tidy. A suicide provokes the deep-seated lyrical longing of “Young Lover,” while the wrenching “Happy Birthday, Johnny” finds Clark conversing with an old friend who “asked me for dough to get something to eat” because he’s fallen on hard times. He lashes out when she hesitates, causing her to contemplate whether his stinging words (“You yelled through your teeth, accused me of acting like all royalty”) are actually true.