While some women are espousing motherhood in technologically-oriented ways, others are eschewing the practice altogether. This much is declared by Florence Welch on “King,” the opening track of her latest album, Dance Fever. It is on this impassioned single that Welch declares, “I am no mother/I am no bride/I am king.” And that seems like it might be for the best for all of us since it leaves Florence + the Machine ample time to create music (in lieu of rearing children) in service of those with the good sense to listen to it.
With four years being the longest interval between any album of Florence’s to come out (the last instance being the gap between 2011’s Ceremonials and 2015’s How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful), the absence of the band on the music scene between High as Hope and Dance Fever was largely spurred by COVID. As Florence explained, she was all set to record at Electric Lady Studios in February/March of 2020 before countries outside of China had to acknowledge they were being affected by the novel virus as well. Yet it looked as though the artistic gods had different plans for Florence’s record, insisting that New York is actually not a great place for creativity and also giving her more time to work on lyrics and perfect visuals for what is likely her most stunning record from start to finish. And it is “King” that very much establishes the thesis statement of the album, which is that Florence, like Sheila Heti in Motherhood, must reconcile that she is essentially choosing her art over having a “real” child. For in side-stepping a decision altogether, a decision is still made. And since every woman is prisoner to a different kind of clock than men, there is an expiration on how long she can wait to reproduce.
By waiting too long, a woman, thus, effectively “chooses” what she wants to do… or rather, not do. And for the woman who is an artist, having a child carries far much more weight than it does for a male artist. For as history has shown time and time again, men have “options” when it comes to parenting. They have always known the luxury of absenteeism in a way that women are rarely permitted (at least not without more judgment, as a mother is expected to “transcend” into her full-on maternal mode immediately upon birthing). That said, the female artist is “required” to let her own art fall by the wayside as she focuses all her attention on something more “important.” Because the greatest lie of all that women are told is that the most significant thing they can contribute to this world is children (just look at what the U.S. government is doing right now to reinforce that archaic messaging).
Hence, Welch’s poignant commentary in “King” on how men still expect the woman they’re with to essentially let her artistic pursuits slip away in service of “the greater good” of child-bearing. Society telling women over and over again that the children they “give” are more worthwhile than any art they could ever contribute to the world. Thus, the lyrics in “King” that go, “And how much is art really worth?/The very thing you’re best at is the thing that hurts the most.” Hurts because in order to give oneself fully to it as a woman, there is always a larger sacrifice, a greater sense of isolation and loneliness by “opting out” of motherhood and/or a “conventional” relationship as a ramification.
So it is that Welch adds, “But you need your rotten heart, your dazzling pain like diamond rings.” After all, isn’t the best, most resonant art usually derived from the pain of loneliness and rejection (whether romantic or societal)? Try as Olivia Rodrigo might hope to believe that’s not the case when she comes up with a far more upbeat follow-up to Sour.
Even so, Florence, unlike, say, Lana Del Rey, has a knack for being able to make her anxiety and depression come across as ebullient on a song like “Free.” Jubilant and effusive, it is the track from Dance Fever that is most evocative of the album title (even though one would think that would be “Choreomania” instead). With a video that features Bill Nighy as the personification of her anxiety, Welch conveys her best impression of someone suffering from “dance fever” herself (which is infinitely better than “COVID fever”) as she shakes all her nerves out in a vibrant red dress. One of many in her arsenal that screams, “Renaissance!” Then again, why should anyone be surprised by Welch’s sartorial stylings when her mother, Evelyn, is an esteemed professor of Renaissance Studies? This influence also seems manifest in some of the other more modern visual inspirations Welch has taken in support of the record—including the likes of such films as Juliet of the Spirits, The Wicker Man, The Witch and Midsommar.
With her live shows being described as drawing an audience that looks like “Euphoria meets the Renaissance Faire,” Welch is definitely bringing back the (artistic) theatricality that has been missing from everyone’s lives for the past two-plus years at full force via an even more full-fledged embracing of her aesthetic presentation than ever before. And, on a side note, the Euphoria connection is secured by the fact that Florence’s choreographer for all the Dance Fever videos is Ryan Heffington. “Choreomania” being a nod to her own fascination with that Renaissance-era phenomenon. Or rather, the Middle Ages, coinciding with the stress of the Black Plague and overall poverty. A period when, evidently, people wanted to create a more positive form of “contagion” through a dance plague. Perhaps as the lone affordable method for relieving tension. As for applying “dance mania” to Florence’s own life during the pandemic lockdown, she saw movement as the best way to cope through the anxiety and sadness of believing she might never be able to perform for an audience again. In short, that her only viable profession had been ripped away from her.
That’s at least part of why she opens the song with, “And I am freaking out in the middle of the street/With the complete conviction of someone who’s never had anything actually really bad happen to them [yes, this is sometimes referred to as “a white girl problem”]/But I am committed now to the feeling.” She’s also committed to the belief that women are just as (if not more) “rock and roll” than men. Having used Iggy Pop (still considered as one of the ultimate rockers by music aficionados) as a source to channel on the record, Florence provides not only her own take on the Iggy sound, but also a bridge reminiscent of some Lorde shit (no shock considering both women fuck with Jack Antonoff). Specifically on “Solar Power,” when she says, “I’m kind of like a prettier Jesus.” Florence instead muses, “You said that rock and roll is dead/But is that just because it has not been/Resurrected in your image?/Like if Jesus came back/But in a beautiful dress.” In other words, just because rock and roll is no longer decidedly male doesn’t mean it isn’t still here and, in fact, better than it ever has been thanks to women (including, of all people, Miley Cyrus) like Florence in their diaphanous gowns (see also: Carly Rae Jepsen in the “Western Wind” video).
On the chorus, Florence speaks to the strange hold that dancing has once it takes over, with dramatic backing vocals complementing her as she describes, “I don’t know how it started/Don’t know how to stop it/Suddenly, I’m dancin’ to imaginary music/Something’s coming, so out of breath/I just kept spinnin’ and I danced myself to death.” Indeed, some people in the Middle Ages really did do just that, breaking their ribs in the process of surrendering to the ecstasy of a jig performed en masse.
Commencing with soft vocal flourishes, “Back in Town” (not to be mistaken for Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town”—which Florence seems to effectively be saying anyway with regard to women) slows down the pace of the record thus far. A lush ballad, Florence admits, “Never really been alive before/Always lived in my head/And sometimes it was easier/Hungover and half-dead.” Sounding her most Joni Mitchell-esque, Florence leads into a chorus that will haunt any former alcoholic: “I came for the pleasure, but I stayed for the pain.” Of course, that line also speaks to a romantic relationship that one can’t bring themselves to end, even when they know it’s toxic. Yet so many find ways to rationalize it, even after they’ve moved on, hence the chorus, “I’m back in town, why don’t we go out?/Let the rats spin around our feet/The full moon shines down on these dirty streets” (again, how very bubonic plague), and, elsewhere, “I thought that I was here with you/But it was always just an empty room/‘Cause it’s always the same.” That is to say, emotionally pestilential. This, too, can even apply to one’s dynamic with a city, particularly the city everyone remains inexplicably enraptured by: New York. Which is why another standout line from “Back in Town” is, “If you get spat on/That’s just your big city baptism.” Sounds like a prime rationalization from one of NYC’s many coked-out proponents.
Yet to be against New York is tantamount to being among the “Girls Against God,” the track that follows. And for Florence, “God” is the ability to perform. The spirituality she gleans from being amongst a crowd of worshippers who revere music as much as she does. This is why she explained of the track, “For me gigs and shows is where I find my experience of spirituality. And that’s where God is for me—in these rooms with you… So I was having a kind of complete spiritual collapse at the shutting down of all shows and all faces I felt connected to. So I kind of imagined an army of furious girls in their pajamas waging war on heaven. Because I was very very angry and I was in my pajamas most of the time. And so this song is kind of about that feeling.” More than “kind of,” one would say. Even if the intro does briefly tap into a “side” psychological issue that many can relate to when Florence admits, “When someone looks at me with real love/I don’t like it very much/Kinda makes me feel like I’m bein’ crushed/Is this something that you would like to discuss?”
Perhaps that’s why fan adulation is more bearable for someone such as Florence. Because she never has to truly stare directly into the faces in the crowd, she can’t tell if anyone is looking at her with “real love”—or just the unhealthy parasocial kind. She then leads into the chorus with a minimalist acoustic guitar backing her up as she croons, “And it’s good to be alive/Crying into cereal at midnight/If they ever let me out, I’m gonna really let it out.” She’s certainly about to as she embarks upon her first world tour since 2019, during which her crescendo of happiness will mitigate what she was feeling when she wrote, “I listen to music from 2006 and feel kind of sick/But, oh God, you’re gonna get it/You’ll be sorry that you messed with this.” Alas, if anyone’s going to be sorry for “messing” with something (namely Mother Nature, whose being trifled with is what caused the pandemic in the first place), it’s going to be humans like Florence.
Florence’s rage (even if delivered oh so beautifully through that dulcet voice of hers) persists on “Dream Girl Evil,” an all too relevant song at this moment in history. Because, unfortunately, the attack on women and their rights as human beings to make choices about their own lives and bodies is being assaulted more than ever by the patriarchy. As Florence addresses the impossibility of ever living up to “male standards” that can only deem women as virgins or whores, she condescends, “Well, did I disappoint you?/Did Mommy make you sad? [all male contempt for women, in the end, stemming from his matriarch]/Do I just remind you of every girl that made you mad?” Her snarky tone is to be expected when all women really want is to be seen as human beings before their gender. And yet, the vicious cycle of perpetually being singled out as a woman above all else is something she herself can’t help but continue to spotlight as part of the male-designed trap to incur self-doubt.
Florence then sarcastically remarks, “Make me perfect, make me your fantasy/You know I deserve it/Well, take it out on me.” And oh, how men are only too happy to do just that. Particularly as their expectations of women are impossible for anyone, let alone men themselves, to meet. So it is that Florence ribs (no biblical allusion meant), “Am I your dream girl?/You think of me in bed/But you could never hold me/You like me better in your head/Make me evil/Then I’m an angel instead/At least you’ll sanctify me when I’m dead.” Something Princess Diana could surely relate to.
Florence’s callout of the Oedipus complex is of particular poignance throughout this song as she continues, “Watch me shimmer/A projection of your mother/But don’t come cryin’/I am nobody’s moral center/It cannot hold.” That last line being a reference to William Butler Yeats’ “The Second Coming,” when he wrote, “Things fall apart; the center cannot hold (a line Joan Didion took a shine to as well). Let’s hope it can’t—at the same time, no one has a plan for when things do invariably fall apart.
When they do, no “Prayer Factory” in the world can help us. And it’s this brief interlude that again plays into Florence’s pandemic angst as she accuses an invisible god, “And all this work gone to waste/You made me climb, then you shut the gate.” It’s the perfect lead-in to a song like “Cassandra,” named, of course, for the prophetess in Greek mythology who was doomed to never have her accurate prophecies believed (a fate that happens in 12 Monkeys as well). The twinkly introduction to “Cassandra” is in contrast to the tragic subject matter of the song, which wields the eponymous character as an allegory for all women who are never believed (a constant occurrence that has only been compounded, of late, by the conundrum of Amber Heard). Silenced instead and told to know “their place” (i.e., “I used to tell the future, but they cut out my tongue/And left me doin’ laundry to think on what I’d done”).
Perhaps only when (if, more like) we do manage to live in a world where women are actually listened to instead of written off constantly as “clucking hens” will we truly know that “Heaven Is Here.” This, too, being another short little ditty like “Prayer Factory” (perhaps the motifs of each song sharing some brevity correlation). Among her witchiest tracks on Dance Fever, the song opens with the lines, “Oh, bring your salt, bring your cigarette/Draw me a circle and I’ll protect/Heaven is here if you want it.” Seeming to refer to herself as “heaven” to the one she’s with, Florence doesn’t want her lover to get it twisted and ever think that she relies on him for anything like “heaven” when she has her own music to turn to for that. As confirmed by the outro, “And еvery song I wrote became an escape rope/Tied around my neck to pull me up to Heaven.” Naturally, using the analogy of a noose also means that her “heaven”—art—can also be hell in that it constricts and confines her from doing other things, from being like the “normal” girls. The dramatic accompanying video relies on the movement of her body to express this feeling of simultaneous release and oppression.
Starting with a gasp, “Daffodil” was written as the pandemic continued to soldier on, bringing with it new variants and more deaths (as it still is). Yet, in a similar vein as Lana Del Rey’s “Violets for Roses,” Florence can’t help but see hope in the changing season, as exemplified by daffodils springing up. Insisting, “I saw the future in the face of a daffodil” (and then repeating the flower’s name as the chorus), Florence, like the rest of us, wants so badly to will the world to simply be “normal” again, even if through something as simple as embracing the hope that usually comes with spring. At the same time, she has to concede that we’re a “generation soaked in grief/We’re drying out and hanging on by the skin of our teeth.”
Florence goes on to more directly acknowledge the effects of the pandemic on the subsequent song. And yes, mercifully, someone has finally come along to negate the existence of Justin Timberlake’s “My Love” thanks to Florence now having a composition of the same name. On it, she demands, “So tell me where to put my love/Do I wait for time to do what it does?/I don’t know where to put my love.” This sentiment being a mirror of so many other people’s when corona came to roost and took away any sense of connection and artistic community that could not, ultimately, be substituted with Zoom. Co-produced by Glass Animals’ Dave Bayley, the single was originally imagined as being acoustic until Bayley came in and transformed it into the Calvin Harris-esque (think: “Sweet Nothing”) baroque pop number it is today.
Things veer back to the acoustic on the all-too-brief (forty-eight seconds) “Restraint” as Florence adopts a croaking tone paired with high-pitched backing vocals. Revisiting the themes of female subjugation most prominent on “Dream Girl Evil,” Florence sardonically demands, “And have I learned restraint/Am I quiet enough for you yet?”
To negate the idea that she could ever be quiet, such a query leads into “The Bomb.” With intro notes that echo Beck’s “Lost Cause” meets Jewel’s “You Were Meant For Me,” Florence juxtaposes her unavoidably cursed relationships with her one true love, Music, as she accepts, “I’ve blown apart my life for you/And bodies hit the floor for you/And break me, shake me, devastate mе.” This could apply to both the lover she briefly sacrifices her art for, as well as to Art itself for preventing her from ever truly being capable of “adult” relationships. She also gives a nod to what many female songwriters do with their work (hear: Ariana, Taylor, Olivia, et al.) by alchemizing pain into beauty through a song. Ergo Florence saying, “Come here, baby, tеll me that I’m wrong/I don’t love you, I just love the bomb/Buildings falling is the only thing that turns me on/And I’m in ruins, but is it what I wanted all along?/Sometimes you get the good, sometimes you get a song.” Or, as Ari put it, “God forbid something happens/Least this song is a smash.”
Elvis Presley, too, knows something about pouring pain into a song, and gets paid homage to in the finale of the record’s standard edition, “Morning Elvis.” A fitting emblem for Florence, as Presley had his own bout with addiction, which, like Marilyn before him, served as the cause of his eventual demise (having a heart attack in his bathroom brought on by too many barbiturates… and opiates). Among the drugs in his system were Dilaudid, Percodan, Demerol, Quaaludes and codeine—oh my! So if anyone could understand Florence’s inability to make it for a scheduled trip to Graceland due to a hangover, it’s Elvis. An icon greatly admired by one of Florence’s own idols, Nick Cave. Hence, her heightened interest in paying a visit to Memphis. But as she describes at the outset of the album’s coda, “When they dressed me and they put me on a plane to Memphis, well I never got to see Elvis/I just sweated it out in a hotel room/But I think The King [tying it all back to the opening song] would have understood/Why I never made it to Graceland.”
He surely would have. For Florence, like Lana before her, was convinced that “the whole concept [of drinking] was so fucking cool. (Lizzy) Granted, Lana was an alcoholic by fourteen, long before she had the excuse of fame to give her a “pass” for addictive behavior. Del Rey reflected of those “wilderness years” that got her sent to boarding school, “I knew it was a problem when I liked it more than I liked doing anything else. I was like, ‘I’m fucked. I am totally fucked.’” Just as Florence realized she was, confessing, “I thought the way to hang onto your rock n’ roll roots was to be the drunkest person in the room.” And oh, how Florence fulfilled that demand for many years before and after taking the stage until finally chalking it up to a “phase” in her life (and career) that wasn’t sustainable.
She ruminated on that period, “What was it about me that had such a death wish? I had such little care for myself. It didn’t matter what I had done the night before, or the week before, or what chaos I had created, I knew if I got to the stage, something there would save me and that I would be absolved. And [“Elvis Morning”] is about that feeling, but also a testament to all the performers I’ve seen turn pain into something so beautiful.” Well, Elvis couldn’t always make it pretty, but many femme rockers certainly have. And Florence has merely joined their ranks, even in her sober capacity.
Described by Welch as “a fairy tale in fourteen songs,” those with the bonus track edition of Dance Fever will also enjoy poem versions of “King,” “My Love” and “Cassandra.” Or, on another deluxe edition, “Cassandra,” “Free,” Morning Elvis,” “My Love” and a cover of “Search and Destroy”—speaking to that aforementioned Iggy influence. The latter song shattering the illusion of any fey fairy tale notions Florence might have about herself…or that others might have about her. For, ultimately, Dance Fever is meant to emphasize that a woman is the only one who can rescue herself. Usually through the trapdoor of art.
