Anyone who has listened with the slightest attention can tell that Fever Ray is a feminist project, and this manifests itself from the minute you walk into Vega. There are signs posted everywhere asking people to put their phones away, for tall people to stand in the back, and for women to come to the front. It doesn’t really work out that way, but it seems like Karin Dreijer anticipated this.
The show is a spectacle unto itself; it’s bright colors and neon lights, and outrageous costumes. It’s an assemblage of women who look like a fierce girl gang sprung from a fantasy novel. Almost all of Dreijer’s vocals are echoed by two other singers, in the process replacing the metallic harshness of her recordings with something smooth and forceful. There is also menace and provocation to it — during “Falling,” Dreijer and her backing vocalists are grinding and groping each other while staring at the audience with a certain menace. They know you’re watching and they want you to know it, want you to feel like a voyeur.
There is also a very egalitarian quality to this performance that is maybe part feminist and part Scandinavian. Dreijer really shares the stage, not least with her backing singers, to the effect that if you don’t know what she looks like, it’s difficult to determine who the frontwoman of the project is. We are four songs in before the backing singers recede enough to clearly establish her as the ringleader. It’s hard to image many other artists allowing their backing band to wear more attention-grabbing costumes, to sing solos and take over the stage dancing, or to don a wing-inspired silver cape and twirl around during their own performance. It’s all part of the weird celebratory vibe that runs through the evening. For every direct threat to the male gaze, the feeling of female solidarity floats above to strengthen rather than just sneer.