Two years after its original release in her native Sweden, and five months after it appeared for the first time in the UK, the fact that Robyn’s fourth, self-titled, album is still refusing to sink quietly into the shadows gives some indication of its durable, hard-to-kill, quality, and its stealthy word-of-mouth encroachment on the popular imagination.
Dissatisfied by her earlier incarnation as a bubble-gum Euro poppet, this record represents a brave declaration of independence for the diminutive Scandinavian singer.
Jumping ship from the warm embrace of a major deal, she set up her own label and drafted in some quality left-field collaborators (The Knife, Andreas Kleerup) with the intention of crafting a lean and slinky album that could stand tall in the modern pop poppy field.
And, know what, she’s only gone and pulled it off. Robyn, it turns out, compares favourably with yer Gwen’s and Nelly’s.
Fun (the tongue in cheek braggadocio of the opening track, ‘Curriculum Vitae’ reveals how our heroine has cured Aids and won the Nobel Prize twice), potty mouthed (her cover of Prince’s ‘Jack Off’ would make Mr Nelson himself blush), and genuinely, properly brilliant in places (I point you all towards the string section in ‘Be Mine’), it’s a record that provides more ballast for those who claim that during the Noughties the top end of the pops have dished out a hell of a creative pummelling to those lurking in the murky underground.
Strolling round with an effortless grandeur, then pausing to place one foot on the daytime schedules and the other on a Saturday night dancefloor, ‘Robyn’ looks likely to make an impression come the end of year polls.
Be afraid Kylie, be very afraid.