Amidst all the Gaga fervor (which I obviously—and wholeheartedly—am helping spur on), other tremendous pop acts have been looked over. One of the greatest things happening in music this year is the release of three mini-albums by Swedish sensation Robyn. The albums, titled Body Talk pts. 1, 2, and 3, are being released every few months, at the rate that Robyn and her producers finish polishing new tracks. Parts 1 and 2 have already been released to much-deserved critical acclaim.
One of the aspects of this project I find particularly interesting is the theme reflected in the title: Body Talk. Despite this phrase, the lyrics of the songs on both albums make relatively few direct references to the body. Robyn’s songs, like so many other songs in the pop genre, are instead mostly about the trials of love/unrequited love and dancing.
Perhaps, though, that’s the key to the title: dancing. Robyn is obsessed with the club and, more importantly, obsessed with what happens in clubs. Namely, socializing. Socializing centered on the dancefloor (song titles include the likes of “Dancing On My Own,” “Dancehall Queen,” and “We Dance to the Beat”). And dancing is nothing else if not communication via the body. The socialization isn’t even really centered on dancing; the dancing is socialization. Dancing is a discourse. Dancing is literally body talk.
Perhaps, then, it makes sense that dance pop is a genre with such a strong female presence. Perhaps it makes sense that dance clubs are a staple of queer culture. Dancing is performative—it is a way to reclaim the body, and not be made a slave of it. French feminist Helene Cixous in her seminal essay (pun intended), “The Laugh of the Medusa” outlines some of the qualities of what would come to be called the “écriture féminine” (women’s writing). Cixous places a great deal of emphasis on the body and observes that a woman speaking publically, “doesn’t ‘speak’, she throws her trembling body forward. . . it's with her body that she vitally supports the ‘logic’ of her speech. Her flesh speaks true. . .she physically materializes what she's thinking; she signifies it with her body.” Perhaps, then, dancing is a permutation of the écriture féminine. It’s certainly freeing for many of these great pop artists: “Now what? 'ya jaw has dropped / Until the music stop / you know I still run this thing like a dancehall queen / I really don't want no hassle” Robyn boasts on “Dancehall Queen,” while on “None of Dem” she feels she wants to escape a town where “none of these beats ever break the law”—finding music worth dancing to is literally a matter of liberation.
The world of pop, in general, seems a place where feminist and queer expression can be very at home, as its equal emphasis on theatricality, music, fashion, dance, and performance make it a complex discourse that might be capable of thwarting certain aspects of patriarchal communication. Of course, major labels can corrupt all this, sometimes turning singers into public sex-slaves. But the savviest of the pop-icons brand themselves, literally turn themselves into cultural movements (think Gwen Stefani and her world of LAMB, or Gaga and her tight-knit community of Monsters), thereby wresting control from the system and speaking to us in new ways. They’re making the beats and dancing to them, they’re making the clothes and wearing them, and they’re staging the performances and putting them on.
“When the beat comes on, the girls all line up / And the boys all look, but no, they can't touch” Gwen Stefani sings in her now several-year-old hit single, “Wind It Up.” It’s a clear pronouncement of body ownership and a clever summation of certain third-wave feminist views. “I know he thinks you're fine and stuff / But does he know how to wind you up?” If he doesn’t, Gwen and the girls probably do, because they’re speaking an entirely different language.
One of the aspects of this project I find particularly interesting is the theme reflected in the title: Body Talk. Despite this phrase, the lyrics of the songs on both albums make relatively few direct references to the body. Robyn’s songs, like so many other songs in the pop genre, are instead mostly about the trials of love/unrequited love and dancing.
Perhaps, though, that’s the key to the title: dancing. Robyn is obsessed with the club and, more importantly, obsessed with what happens in clubs. Namely, socializing. Socializing centered on the dancefloor (song titles include the likes of “Dancing On My Own,” “Dancehall Queen,” and “We Dance to the Beat”). And dancing is nothing else if not communication via the body. The socialization isn’t even really centered on dancing; the dancing is socialization. Dancing is a discourse. Dancing is literally body talk.
Perhaps, then, it makes sense that dance pop is a genre with such a strong female presence. Perhaps it makes sense that dance clubs are a staple of queer culture. Dancing is performative—it is a way to reclaim the body, and not be made a slave of it. French feminist Helene Cixous in her seminal essay (pun intended), “The Laugh of the Medusa” outlines some of the qualities of what would come to be called the “écriture féminine” (women’s writing). Cixous places a great deal of emphasis on the body and observes that a woman speaking publically, “doesn’t ‘speak’, she throws her trembling body forward. . . it's with her body that she vitally supports the ‘logic’ of her speech. Her flesh speaks true. . .she physically materializes what she's thinking; she signifies it with her body.” Perhaps, then, dancing is a permutation of the écriture féminine. It’s certainly freeing for many of these great pop artists: “Now what? 'ya jaw has dropped / Until the music stop / you know I still run this thing like a dancehall queen / I really don't want no hassle” Robyn boasts on “Dancehall Queen,” while on “None of Dem” she feels she wants to escape a town where “none of these beats ever break the law”—finding music worth dancing to is literally a matter of liberation.
The world of pop, in general, seems a place where feminist and queer expression can be very at home, as its equal emphasis on theatricality, music, fashion, dance, and performance make it a complex discourse that might be capable of thwarting certain aspects of patriarchal communication. Of course, major labels can corrupt all this, sometimes turning singers into public sex-slaves. But the savviest of the pop-icons brand themselves, literally turn themselves into cultural movements (think Gwen Stefani and her world of LAMB, or Gaga and her tight-knit community of Monsters), thereby wresting control from the system and speaking to us in new ways. They’re making the beats and dancing to them, they’re making the clothes and wearing them, and they’re staging the performances and putting them on.
“When the beat comes on, the girls all line up / And the boys all look, but no, they can't touch” Gwen Stefani sings in her now several-year-old hit single, “Wind It Up.” It’s a clear pronouncement of body ownership and a clever summation of certain third-wave feminist views. “I know he thinks you're fine and stuff / But does he know how to wind you up?” If he doesn’t, Gwen and the girls probably do, because they’re speaking an entirely different language.
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