Röyksopp, Norway’s long-reigning electro-romantics Svein Berge and Torbjørn Brundtland, return with True Electric, an expansive, reanimated sweep through their own catalogue, refracted through the euphoric prism of their 2023 live tour. Released via their own Dog Triumph imprint, the 19-track set doesn’t so much revisit as reimagine: old favourites are re-spliced, re-pressurised, and let loose into the club with a darker, sweatier sheen. While the gentle atmospheres of Melody A.M. and The Understanding linger at the edges, this is, by and large, a record built for motion: it is glistening, pulsing, and straining at the leash.
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As ever, the duo’s hand-picked constellation of collaborators adds emotional gravity and texture throughout. Alison Goldfrapp emerges as the quiet powerhouse in ‘Impossible’, a perfectly-tuned piece of late-night melancholia, her voice both spectral and grounded, floating above a synth line that feels perpetually on the verge of disintegration. Robyn makes three appearances, to mixed results, but ‘Monument’ is a highlight: thumping and slow-burning, with a cavernous sound palette that matches her aching delivery. However, on ‘Do It Again’ and ‘The Girl and the Robot’, the pairing feels less natural, her pop sensibilities rubbing awkwardly against tracks that lean more into jagged techno than emotive synthpop.
Fever Ray is a different story entirely. Their take on ‘What Else Is There?’ is pure sleight-of-hand—a haunted, neon-lit rework that transforms the original’s wistful mood into something more angular and entrancing. Meanwhile, the album’s instrumentals offer some of its most nuanced moments. ‘The Ladder’ and ‘The ‘R’’ feel stripped-back and deliberate, grounded in dubby rhythm and analogue warmth, a reminder of Röyksopp’s ability to build whole worlds without uttering a word.
There are stumbles along the way. ‘Here She Comes Again’ and ‘Never Ever’, despite polished production, drift toward generic territory; well-constructed, but perhaps emotionally inert. But the pacing is rescued by the brooding beauty of ‘Oh, Lover’ featuring Susanne Sundfør, and the mechanical churn of ‘Sordid Affair’ with Man Without Country, each one weaving atmosphere with restraint.
By the time we arrive at ‘Like an Old Dog’ – a grubby techno closer fronted by Pixx – we are deep in the fog of Röyksopp’s after-hours terrain. It’s a fitting end: raw, driven, and slightly feral, as if one’s sanity is being unraveled in a strangely beautiful way. True Electric doesn’t pretend to offer reinvention for reinvention’s sake. Instead, it’s a carefully staged resurrection, one that trades polish for pulse. It’s a look back, certainly, but one that never stops moving forward.
