Depending on whom you ask-- and even in which country you live-- "pop" can mean a lot of different things. It's a word that's been demonized and marginalized, especially amongst stodgy and often conservative U.S. rock critics. Values, and the means in which they're defined, have been frequent talking points in the past couple of weeks, both in the rockcrit world (thanks to Kelefa Sanneh's recent New York Times Arts cover story on rockism) and in the nation at large (oh, you know). In each case, the conservative factions have framed their dialogue in pretty knee-jerk terms. Most rock critics' views of unity, it would seem, aren't dissimilar to George W.'s-- in the best Christian tradition, it's achieved through converting the heathens and savages. Just as our family values are apparently now defined by bigotry, fear, and ignorance, so too is "phony," "plastic," "inauthentic" pop music.
Well, fuck all that: Just as (to borrow Biblical terms) ideas like love, hope, brotherhood, and charity should be central to American values, pop is music's culture of life. It's a celebration of togetherness, the sound of universal pursuits and needs such as truth and beauty; of seeking a sense of self and, when desirable, giving yourself over to the crowd; of wanting to dance, smile, laugh, love, and be loved-- and it undiscriminatingly expresses it all to loads of people in a few short minutes. Before Sunset's Jesse may have been talking out of his ass when he said his next novel was going to take place within the span of a single pop song, but there's something lovely about the idea. And anyway, maybe it's not so far-fetched to live a large portion of your life in a single song: Anne Lilia Berge-Strand has done it-- though not out of choice.
Ms. Berge-Strand (Annie to her friends and the record-buying public) believed that her debut record would have been released years ago, but fate intervened when her musical and romantic partner, Tore Korknes (Erot), died in 2001 from heart complications at the age of 23. The pair had only recorded one track, 1999's vaguely dubby electro-house love song "The Greatest Hit", an intoxicating clubland "duet" between producer and vocalist. The single-- along with Erot's solo work and that of fellow Nords Röyksopp-- helped launch Tellé Records and, thankfully, is included here alongside another dozen slices of stylish, sophisticated electro-pop, crisp tracks that move between the fizzy and the woozy, all anchored by Annie's breathy (sometimes almost muted) vocals.
Whether due to Annie's backstory or not, there's a palpable sense of melancholy permeating this album. She's at her most confident while dispensing romantic advice to herself on the playful, wobbly Richard X collaboration "Chewing Gum", but on "No Easy Love", as she struggles to maintain hope in a search for love and grapples with the netless tightrope of commitment, Annie's voice barely rises above a whisper.
In addition to Erot and Richard X (who also co-wrote the winking, seductive "Me Plus One"), Anniemal features a trio of tracks produced by Röyksopp's Torbjørn Brundtland, and a handful created with Op:l Bastards' Timo Kaukolampi. This all-star team of Northern European electro-house producers infuses the record with often low, rumbling bass, twitchy synths, and an oddly high-altitude light-headedness-- like floating, high on oxygen, just above a dancefloor. "Always Too Late" lurches like a cross between Missy Elliott and UK garage and "Come Together" is pure acid house retro, but most of the sonics shade closely to each producer's already signature sounds.
For her part, Annie will likely draw comparisons to Kylie Minogue and Saint Etienne's Sarah Cracknell. Such talk is most likely a slap at each artist's relatively thin vocals but, like the other two (especially Cracknell), Annie coaxes quite a bit from her cellophane pipes and transforms her weakness into strength. Annie's vocals can't help but hide the senses of sorrow and vulnerability that run through her songs, and that makes her urge to get herself back up off the wall and reclaim her once-shattered life all the more touching. And unlike Kylie, who exists in a celebrity neverworld, or Cracknell, who manages to make familiar settings seem like the most glamorous places in the world, Annie's tracks navigate the typical urban worlds of bars, cars, clubs, flats, and high streets. She dreams of "Top of the Pops" and gives herself romantic advice in the mirror, yet her world should be pretty familiar to much of her audience-- sometimes achingly so.
It all peaks with "Heartbeat", one of the tracks Annie recorded with Brundtland. Last month, Pitchfork's Nick Sylvester said he thought it was the best song of the year, and I agree. On one listen, it doesn't sound like the best song of the year: It doesn't do the things that year-defining tracks are supposed to do-- break new sonic ground or spearhead a trend or paradigm shift. No, what it does better than anything this year is what great pop often does: It articulates our most basic desires in an almost irresistibly catchy package.
The track itself narrates a party, drinks with friends, and the thrill of a first encounter-- all that many people want from a night out. It communicates a love for music, friendship, and connection, and celebrates the moments when all three merge perfectly. The track's rhythm is obviously supposed to mirror the song's title, and that could have been cloying or heavy-handed, but when that rhythm quickens and doubles its pace as Annie catches the eye of and moves to the beat with another partygoer, it becomes a deceptively simple and surprisingly beautiful articulation of basic human need, beautifully encapsulating every element of human excitement-- guilt, nerves, excitement, hope. The culture of life.
