While I appreciate scores of pop fans have crowned this their single of the year, it falls juuuuust short for me. The final two have, in no particular order, a glowing warmth and a hatful of outrageous invention, qualities that just tip the scales. But No.3 isn’t bad place to end up. So what does Robyn have in return? Mad stalking skillz, a hint of menace, a six-note rising/falling synth riff that you could knock out on that rudimentary electronic keyboard you made with your dad in 1982, a bustling buzzy undertone, a classic singalong chorus that invites you to share in her stifling, needy pain, and her well-versed but ever-devastating Swedish sob. Well, that’ll do, won’t it?
Junior’s reaction is, shall we say, gnomic. She dances on her own (yes!), throwing shapes that invoke the malign spectre of Jamiroquai (no!), then sits down to punch starshaped holes in a B&Q receipt. Take that, DIY.
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