Concert Reviews

Robyn’s First North Texas Show in 8 Years Is a Glittering Pop Party

Robyn's muscular soprano voice serenaded the audience at Irving's Toyota Music Factory on Tuesday.
Robyn's muscular soprano voice serenaded the audience at Irving's Toyota Music Factory on Tuesday. Trang Nguyen
Suddenly, it was silent. The thrumming bass, swirling synths, ticking drums and Robyn’s muscular soprano were stilled. In the harsh half-light of Irving’s Pavilion at Toyota Music Factory, its cavernous interior reconfigured into an intimate theater, a couple thousand voices rose up as one: “I’m in the corner/Watching you kiss her/Oh oh oh/I’m right over here/Why can’t you see me?”

The chorus of “Dancing on My Own” dissolved into fervent cheers as the woman born Robyn Carlsson beamed and almost seemed to be holding back tears as the crowd began chanting her name. Basking but a moment, she imperceptibly cued the song to drop back in behind her — the effect evoked dipping a skateboard into a deliriously long half-pipe, a giddy slip into the beyond — and the performance rolled on.

Tuesday night, which marked the final 2019 date on Robyn’s touring calendar as well as her first Dallas-area headlining performance in nearly a decade, was a vivid reminder of an eternal pop music paradox: isolation and communion.

The act of listening, taking in an artist’s music, is, at its core, a solitary endeavor. No one can know how you receive something, or what it means to you in the moment it’s first heard (or listened to over and over), or the catharsis that can result. That interiority finds purchase in a room full of like-minded souls, gathered to celebrate that which is loved so fiercely — passionately singing aloud what might have only previously been hummed in cars or sung in showers.

Again and again, Robyn moved with a fluidity and a command that almost made her seem like one of the crowd, someone lost in the rhythms of her own concert.

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Robyn’s catalog is almost custom-built for such consumption, considering its often-immaculate electro-pop confections, with their gleaming, sexy, sophisticated surfaces, each laced with sharply observed lyrics capable of leaving a bruise or breaking your heart.

The 40-year-old Swedish singer-songwriter and her collaborators excel at finding the space between vulnerability and bravado: “Stuck in glitter, strands of saliva/Won’t you get me right where the hurt is?” she coos in “Honey,” the title track of both her eighth studio album and current tour.

Before an enthusiastic, if somewhat sparse, crowd largely gathered in the general admission space on the floor, Robyn — backed by a quintet on a stage draped in what appeared to be reams of gold fabric — worked through nearly all of Honey’s nine tracks, as well as other pockets of her back catalog.

Again and again, Robyn moved with a fluidity and a command that almost made her seem like one of the crowd, someone lost in the rhythms of her own concert. Songs slipped and melted and blossomed into one another, creating the sensation of a single sonic experience — a carefully assembled playlist made manifest — intermittently broken up by applause, joyful shouts or the occasional costume change.

To see Robyn was to feel her — metaphorically, yes, but also literally. The low end pulsed for the duration of her roughly 100-minute set, augmented by washes of synthesizer and angelic vocals, threading through the disco and synthpop-tinged tunes like a gossamer strand.

While the evening’s early going of moving easily from “Indestructible” to “Hang With Me” to “Ever Again” was electrifying, Robyn and her bandmates found another gear with the hard-hitting “Love is Free,” which spilled into the main set’s final four songs: “Don’t Fucking Tell Me What to Do,” “Dancing on My Own,” “Missing U” and “Call Your Girlfriend.”

Taken together, it was nearly 20 minutes of sustained euphoria — stacking propulsive, crunching beats atop glittering melodies as Robyn’s perspiring form twitched, shook, crawled, strutted and swooped from one side of the stage to another, the audience alternately lost in its own gyrations or eyes locked onto the headliner’s every move.

As much as it’s possible to be alone together, such was the case as Robyn — who let the music do most of the talking Tuesday, and scarcely said much more than the perfunctory “How are you, Dallas?” boilerplate — conducted a master class in calibrated sensory overload for a fortunate few, most of whom exited into Irving’s subdued cement sprawl, floating from the contact high of one of the best nights of their lives.
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Preston Jones is a Dallas-based writer who spent a decade as the pop music critic for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, where the Texas Associated Press Managing Editors honored his work three times, including a 2017 first place award for comment and criticism (Class AAAA). His writing has also appeared in the New York Observer, The Dallas Morning News, the Houston Chronicle, Central Track, Oklahoma Today and Slant Magazine.
Contact: Preston Jones