In 2010, Robyn rebooted. Five years after founding her own label and securing the artistic freedom she never had as a bubblegum-pop teen icon, the Swedish singer announced an ambitious plan to release three mini-albums in one year, recording and touring simultaneously to fund her efforts. The gamble paid off: Body Talk, the compilation of those releases, distills love, loneliness, and dancefloor euphoria into electro-pop perfection. Its legacy transcends just being a stellar record: Body Talk is the mark of a singular artist claiming her future.

Body Talk reintroduces Robyn as an innovator and a powerhouse, as well as a woman with complexities to celebrate. She’s a hyper-optimized fembot rebelling against societal expectations; she’s a globetrotting badass you should know not to fuck with; she’s indestructible. These 15 songs surge forward with pulsating four-to-the-floor breakdowns, disco sparkles, and glitchy techno earworms (most produced by Klas Åhlund). But beneath Body Talk’s metallic armor is vulnerability: Robyn is an outsider seeking salvation on the dancefloor, who uses this space to spark the fire inside her. “Don’t you know when nothing ever seem to make sense/You put your dancing shoes on and do it again,” she proclaims on “In My Eyes.”

A current of self-assuredness runs beneath Body Talk, even in its loneliest moments. The record’s two life-affirming hits, “Dancing on My Own” and “Call Your Girlfriend,” are vivid portrayals of heartache told from two sides of the same coin. In the former, she is brokenhearted but resilient, dancing her pain away at a nightclub among “stilettos and broken bottles.” In the latter, she is the one crushing hearts as she instructs her lover on how to ditch his girlfriend, imploring him to treat her with the respect and kindness she deserves. Robyn’s strength and empathy inspired a new generation of pop artists, from Carly Rae Jepsen to Perfume Genius, and the escapism her music offers is just as generous: Every song on Body Talk is an invitation to transform your own pain into triumph. –Quinn Moreland / Pitchfork.com