You get a vague sense of where Dancing On The Wall, MUNA’s spiky fourth album, might go after its first song, “It Gets So Hot.” The stormy, humid bop accented with late Nineties rock/rave energy gives the record a promising start. Vocalist Katie Gavin’s drawl falls perfectly in sync with the thumping strut of Naomi McPherson and Josette Maskin’s metallic production. Erotic metaphors about the heat paint a vivid portrait of untamable sapphic desire, a hallmark of MUNA’s discography. But as the song builds to a crescendo, its propulsive synths suddenly collapse into a jittery breakdown, stifling what should have been a climactic ending.
This unevenness runs throughout Dancing On The Wall, which emerges torn between delivering something daring and catering to the band’s intensely devoted fanbase. Now that MUNA has ascended the ranks of indie pop, following the breakout success of their self-titled album in 2022, the pressure to defy expectations while maintaining their professional momentum seems to have increased tenfold. There are still traces of early MUNA’s exuberant warmth and unabashed irreverence on this record. But, unlike their previous work, Dancing On The Wall takes MUNA’s trademarks—spirited strings, vigorous drums, Robyn-tinted synths, and lyrics that oscillate between tender, horny, and bitter—and turns them up to eleven.
Engaging in a more maximalist approach does seem like the natural next step for a group eager to preserve both their “gayotic” brand and meet the perpetually anxious cultural moment. Sometimes, it works in the album’s favor: the hooks are poppier, the emotions are bigger, and the instrumentation is edgier. But a bolder pivot doesn’t necessarily yield better results. In particular the songwriting, which was previously tapped into the thrill and messiness of queer yearning, is much blunter and clumsier on Dancing On The Wall, often attempting to project an air of cool and a winking sense of humor that ultimately resigns to pandering.
“Eastside Girls” is one glaring example of that, an L.A. mainstay-referencing anthem that bungles its extremely catchy beat with a clumsy bridge comprised of “We Didn’t Start the Fire”-styled queer word salad (“Roleplay, ren faire / Gender confirmation care” being maybe the worst offender). The punk-slanted, overproduced “Wannabeher” is even more wincingly in-your-face with its revved-up, horny lines that strain to come off tough. The song’s lustful camp isn’t quite at the “hi gays!” extremes of Rina Sawayama or Jessie Ware, but it gets very close, feeling less like the badass banger it wants to be and more like an on-the-nose needle drop for a Netflix coming-of-age movie, or a Drag Race lip sync.
This kind of inelegance can also be found on “Mary Jane,” whose metaphor about being caught in an unhealthy tryst is laid on extremely thick, and “Big Stick,” a well-meaning, unflinching but cumbersome protest song that directs its rage at the genocide in Gaza and the corruption of the Trump administration. It’s not out of the ordinary for pop artists to smuggle their anti-authoritarian politics into their work—The Strokes just did that at Coachella a few weeks ago—and it’s nice to see a band like MUNA speak on these particular issues with the urgency and moral clarity they deserve. Still, socially conscious pop music is a tricky gambit to pull off, especially on an album that juxtaposes songs about sexual and romantic longing. Not to mention: this album is aimed at an audience that likely already agrees with the politics at hand. And while it does technically align with the intensity that animates Dancing On The Wall, the blunt messaging in “Big Stick” undercuts the purpose of its rawness.
Interestingly, Dancing On The Wall is at its most compelling when MUNA isn’t trying so hard to make provocative, heightened statements. “On Call” sounds exactly like Something to Tell You-era HAIM, from the Danielle Haim-esque purr in Gavin’s vocals to the shouting background harmonies, but overcomes its familiarity through guitar riffs and a stirring chorus that viscerally captures the song’s emotional desperation. The title track is similarly a bit derivative, playing like a mix of every MUNA trope, but its broadness weirdly acts as a relief from the album’s more audacious efforts. The New Wave-inflected “Girl’s Girl” recalls the memorable wordplay of “Anything But Me” and the slick guitar licks on “One That Got Away.” Though it’s not quite as fresh as the songs it calls back to, “Girl’s Girl” is fun and funky enough to stand on its own.
The clearest success among MUNA’s more experimental impulses is “So What,” a somber electro-pop number whose synth-driven shuffle and pitch-shifted coo add weight to Gavin’s conflicted feelings about being rejected while being adored by other people. McPherson and Maskin’s play with form, coupled with the palpable loneliness in Gavin’s introspection, makes good on MUNA’s potential to break out of their comfort zone, especially when the song culminates in a flurry of clashing drums and synths. Here, at last, is the cathartic release that was missing from “It Gets So Hot.” But these fleeting flashes of pop euphoria ultimately can’t overcome Dancing On The Wall’s tendency to double down on the band’s formula. [Saddest Factory]
Sam Rosenberg is a filmmaker and freelance entertainment writer from Los Angeles with bylines in The Daily Beast, Consequence, AltPress, and Metacritic. You can find him on X @samiamrosenberg.
