It’s the first Monday of the New Year, and Robyn is sprawled out on a mattress in St. Andrew the Apostle, a modest Roman Catholic church in Brooklyn. She’s wearing a skintight leopard-print outfit — perfect for a horny 46-year-old iconoclast who enjoys a godlike status in contemporary pop. It’s a rare sight: Robyn operates on her own schedule, disappearing from the public eye until she’s ready. Seven years have gone by since her last album, Honey, which was widely considered one of the best of 2018. Now she’s returned, in the middle of a loneliness crisis and mass division, to remind us of the hard-won pleasures of human connection.
