Fever Ray's radical regenerations take shape at Troxy, London - review

Artist Karin Dreijer embraces a queer matrix of f**king femmes, parties and BDSM binaries

(Alamy)

Over the span of almost two decades Karin Dreijer has challenged the idea of a stable identity. Alongside her brother in their synth-pop project The Knife, she’s worn papier-mâché bird masks and guises made of dripping wax.

When she released her first and self-titled solo album as Fever Ray in 2009, her long, white hair curtained her face as it ran down to her midriff. Tonight, it’s all shaved off as her head shines like a bowling ball, and her soiled, white two-piece makes her resemble a horny baby who’s made a mess of its bib. Throughout her music career, and up until this moment, she has been a mutating entity refusing to grow into identity.

Shaving our hair off is either inspired by a burst of craziness or a radical desire for regeneration. In the case of Britney Spears, and now Karin Dreijer, it’s both. Tonight’s show is evidence of that regeneration. The last time she performed as Fever Ray in London, some eight years ago, Dreijer was dressed head-to-toe in black and the stage was dotted with gothic candelabras. The synths were cavernous, the mood was gloomy, and the crowd found it difficult to dance. Tonight, the show is all colour and camp, and strangers dance with one another without reserve.

What caused this change? Well, during her previous shows she was married to a man. But this time around, as mentioned explicitly on her latest LP Plunge, she’s abandoned the heterosexual home life for a queer matrix of fucking femmes, partying and BDSM binaries. Tonight, this significant shift is made especially evident by the older songs in her setlist. The once alveolate synths of "When I Grow Up" take on a new life, and the remixed song now sounds something like one of Brazil’s World Cup songs.

"Concrete Walls" receives a similar treatment. In its original context, this was a song about homebound, postpartum boredom, but now it’s filled with global inflections. The sounds we associate with carnivals - whistle-blowing, buzzing marimba beats - have been added to the mix, and Dreija’s girl gang, who are all of international origin, dance alongside her.

The group, some of whom play drums in the background, while others sing alongside her, help to elucidate some of the themes on the new LP and provide a perfect embodiment of the voices on it. On the title song Dreijer tracked three voices - one which was pitched down several notches, her ‘normal’ voice which resided in the centre of the mix, and another which was modulated up several scales. Dreijer, tonight in the babyish two-piece represents the central voice, the ‘low voice’ is played by Helena Gutarra - wearing a plush, body-builder costume - and the ‘high voice’ is performed by Maryam Nikandish; affirming that these voices are gendered.

Despite the shift, both in music and in mood, Dreijer still retains her trademark "cry break" voice. Throughout the night, it sounds as though her voice is constantly on the verge of some kind of affective release, whether that’s crying or climaxing. It’s a vulnerability that encourages intimacy, but an intimacy that is strictly queer.

For tonight, it’s as though we’re all at in a nightclub rather than a music venue in Limehouse at 10pm on a school night. Strangers smile across the room at one another, they dance together, they trust and embrace one another. And I’d wager that not one of us has any idea who Karin Dreijer is, what she looks like, but none of us care. We’re just glad she’s here and queer.