The RX is Uproxx Music’s stamp of approval for the best albums, songs, and music stories throughout the year. Inclusion in this category is the highest distinction we can bestow, and signals the most important music being released throughout the year. The RX is the music you need, right now.
All on her own, Robyn is a spectacle. The Swedish singer has seized upon the human voice as a tool for prismatic expression ever since she first crossed the Atlantic as a teen pop phenom in 1997. Her breakthrough song, “Show Me Love,” never sounded like a shrink-wrapped Max Martin single, though it set the template for the superproducer’s chain of radio-dominating hits to come. Robyn made the song hers by force, crimping her words at the verse and bringing down every consonant in the chorus like a knife. The lyrics position her as an innocent wanting for experience — “Show me love / Show me life / Baby, show me what it’s all about” — but Robyn countered them by sounding knowing, as if she were adeptly humoring a boy, faking naivete to get what she wanted. She secures power by emulating powerlessness.
That complexity of affect has endured through her 24-year musical career. Since quitting her major label in 2005 and starting her own imprint outside the industry’s usual constraints, Robyn has intensified her relentless pursuit of the paradoxical feelings pop is uniquely equipped to metabolize. She relishes ecstatic songs about heartbreak, downbeat tracks about partying, and every shade of mess in between.
Honey, Robyn’s sixth album and her first in eight years, deepens her knack for packaging untidy emotions into sparkling pop songs. It’s her first album since she started co-producing her own tracks, diving into the machinery of the music and tweaking it as precisely as she modulates her voice. It’s also her first new solo music since she broke up with her long-term partner and lost a lifelong friend, producer Christian Falk, to cancer. Grief tinges the album, but Robyn characteristically refuses to let a single emotion saturate the music. She gets to work extracting sweetness from sadness, pushing through the heavy loss and finding vulnerable, sublime catharsis on the other side.
Unlike Body Talk, the 2010 trio of EPs that cemented Robyn’s position as one of pop’s most meticulous craftspeople, Honey doesn’t interest itself in choruses that aim for the firmament. Singles like “Dancing On My Own” and “Call Your Girlfriend” landed eruptive, joyous melodies, which made them all the stranger and the more compelling: The lyrics to both songs concern troubled love triangles, but Robyn herself sang as if unburdened, as if the singing itself could lift the weight. Shirking that crowd-rousing spirit, Honey is softer, more delicate, and more spacious than most of Robyn’s prior discography. “I was interested in songs that didn’t have a beginning and an end, and things that were hypnotic,” she said in a recent Guardian profile. “I wasn’t interested in melody at all.”
Only Robyn could divest from melody and still write “Honey,” a simmering, melancholy single that ranks among her most enchanting songs to date. “No, you’re not going to get what you need,” she begins. “But baby, I have what you want / Come get your honey.” She inflates the “H” at the start of the word “honey,” imbuing the word with an intoxicating flavor, as if just saying it were sweet. These first lines, and the tenderness with which she delivers them, as synthesizer pads swell around her, comprise the album’s knotty nucleus. What you need has been lost and won’t be found; there’s no surprise ending, no resolution where suddenly everything is all right. You won’t be all right. But there is still desire, and the sweetness of its satiation. Come and get it.