A motordrome is an electrifying image to attach to a pop album. Evocative of thundering sound, burnt rubber, and engines speeding by in a blur, the specialty racetrack is the guiding metaphor behind Danish synth-pop singer MØ’s third LP, which uses it as a loose stand-in for the relentless spiral of anxiety. It’s a perilous loop the singer is eager to escape; her own anxiety manifested in frequent panic attacks following a lengthy, stressful tour behind her sophomore album, 2018’s Forever Neverland. Motordrome is crafted as a way to see through those struggles, approached with a sense of restraint. She reaches for new heights, but the album’s muted, anonymous production largely pushes MØ’s performances into the background.
MØ’s best songs are fueled by her brash, raspy voice, which is capable of turning even the gaudiest pop concoction into a concentrated surge of catharsis. Motordrome instead drowns her out in bland settings, relying on forgettable, reverb-soaked guitar melodies and rolling drum beats. “Wheelspin” and “Brad Pitt” both plod along over sluggish beats and slackened synths, her usually punchy voice delivering merely a glancing blow. Even some of the more propulsive songs, like “Cool to Cry,” settle into sterile, stomping pop-rock, an unfortunate byproduct of a mix of producers (Ariel Rechtshaid, S.G. Lewis, Linus Wikland) whose styles struggle to cohere together.
Motordrome’s highlights arrive when MØ’s performance and songwriting overcome the staid backdrops. On “Live to Survive,” she assumes a staccato rhythm over uptempo, splashy synths that glitz up the struggle of learning from your mistakes. “New Moon,” meanwhile, is one of her best straightforward dance songs in years, bolstered by charging synth lines that lend heft to the song’s headstrong verses about a manipulative relationship: “I’m not that somebody you used to bully,” she vows, just before the song opens up into a dazzling chorus that proves the point.
In those instances, MØ’s music hits with emotive, compelling power. On the album’s fan-dedicated opener “Kindness,” she finds a similar sweet spot as her voice dances along with sharp string jabs and a pattering drumbeat. “Let me in, shake me out of my shell,” she trills, “I wanna feel like myself again.” In her raw, rollicking delivery, MØ does sound comfortable in her skin again, giving the lyric a genuinely openhearted turn. Motordrome occasionally passes through such exhilarating moments, but faceless production too often spins its wheels, making it seem as though MØ is still in search of a sound to match the bravado.
