Eight years ago, Robyn released the three batches of songs that would become the album Body Talk. She had always been at pop’s vanguard: her 1995 debut Robyn Is Here had helped usher in Max Martin’s Cheiron Studios, paving the way for Swedes to go on to rule the charts. Body Talk’s taut, tough electronic pop and keenly feminist lyrics seemed to herald the birth of a new kind of pop star: smart, forward-thinking and in total control.
Soon after its release, armour-plated EDM bangers about female empowerment duly took over the charts. But pop moves fast, and a new, woozier kind of tune by the likes of Ariana Grande and Dua Lipa has made such coldly strident numbers seem old-fashioned. So how would Robyn stay ahead of the game? By making a looser, clubbier album, it transpired, with the intensity of a full-on dance record yet a drowsier, less ruthless approach to melody; one which prized the anticipatory build over the hands-in-the-air release, but never sacrificed Robyn’s irresistible blend of sadness and euphoria.
Honey was heralded with the icily tumbling synthesisers of first single Missing U, which brilliantly welded Steve Reich-style repetition to spacious, thumping rave. Then came the title track, which perfectly evoked the kind of intimacy you can find on a crowded dancefloor. Like most tunes on the album, neither single includes a snare drum, just the primordial four-on-the-floor thump of a kick drum moving relentlessly onwards through the murky synthesisers and Robyn cooing in your ear over cavernous bass.
The other seven tunes take a similar approach, from the deconstructed disco of Because It’s in the Music to Between the Lines, a delightfully playful exercise in New York house. Then there’s the centrepiece, Baby Forgive Me, which segues into Send to Robyn Immediately – a heart-tugging appeal for emotional transparency that itself then morphs into Lil Louis’ orgasmic rave masterpiece French Kiss. It is a journey into pop’s dark, pulsating heart.
The emotional intelligence that unerringly guides this record means that, for all the machines on it, it never feels mechanical, but as warm and soft as a love buzz. There’s a lyrical insistence on communication, openness and togetherness as the only answer to crises that can be political as well as personal. As Robyn sings on Human Being: “You know we’re the same kind / A dying race.” Then there’s the wonderfully off-kilter Beach2K20, in which Robyn invites someone to “this cute place on the beach / They do really nice food” – a Trip Advisor-style recommendation to put alongside Alex Turner’s “well-reviewed” rooftop taqueria in Arctic Monkey’s Four Out of Five.
Like dawn breaking after a long, intense and sweaty night, the album culminates with Ever Again, in which Robyn’s gorgeous harmonies shimmer over a perky 80s funk, and makes her intentions plain: “Never gonna be brokenhearted / Ever again / I’m only gonna sing about love / Ever again.” Of course, a Robyn who was never brokenhearted would mean the end of the blissfully bereft records that have made her so adored. Yet as Honey affirms, she’s earned the right to joy – and shares it eagerly with her fans.
