“This is a service industry,” adds Gavin. “Muna is just an idea to me,” McPherson says in an effort to divorce ego from the process. “You had to work twice as hard,” says Gavin to McPherson. Maskin and Gavin are open about their privileged upbringings. Her perfectionism is a product of a working-class background. I don’t want anyone to tell me how,” says McPherson, proud of the act’s creative control. “I’m at a place where I know what I’m doing.
Thanks to Maskin’s humor, ambitious guitar licks and enormous heart, the album already feels arena-ready. With a strong musical heritage (Dad is a jazz drummer, Mom played upright bass), her touch has the intensity of heart-rending ’80s radio pop. Less upfront is producer-guitarist McPherson. She’s as likely to reference a literary great as she is Lil Kim. Gavin’s spirit was vital to founding the band. “She’s a witchy woman, dude,” says McPherson. That’s largely due to Gavin’s glacial voice and songwriting. Despite an obsession with the Smiths, Chairlift, Peaches, Joni Mitchell and even Dido, the sound is recognizably Muna. The group’s work is a palette of ideas painted together via back-to-back would-be anthems. The track is an LGBTQ anthem about seeking salvation on the dance floor: “I know a place we can go where everyone’s gonna lay down their weapons.” Titled “Crying on the Bathroom Floor,” it’s peak Depeche Mode, and as with previous releases, is accompanied by a short essay, this time about the psychological damage of abusive relationships.Įvery Muna song deals in similarly weighty subjects, including “I Know a Place,” its response to the June nightclub shooting in Orlando, Fla.Įarlier this month on the set of the forthcoming music video for the song, dancers in riot-cop garb performed synchronized moves in the rain.
The day before the march, Muna released another song from its full-length debut, “About U,” due Feb. In an effort to incite her own chants in the crowds at Saturday’s march, Gavin takes the salacious chorus of Khia’s “My Neck, My Back” and switches it up to reference Trump’s now-infamous “Access Hollywood” tape. That’s a Muna win.Įven when not performing, Muna attempts to rally an audience. While outside L.A.’s City Hall, Gavin learns via a fan on social media that someone played it that day at a march in Texas. The title track, with its manifesto, “Every time I don’t shut up it’s revolution,” is a fittingly activist anthem. “So Special” is a tune about slut-shaming. Beneath the shiny surface were self-lacerating, empowering and gender-neutral lyrics appealing to the marginalized. Last year’s “Loudspeaker” EP was the act’s Trojan horse - a collection of ’80s drum machines and emo pop choruses. In the words of McPherson, the band’s Yoda, “There’s a way to sneak yourselves into people’s subconscious and appeal to their empathy.” She’s excited for a upcoming February appearance on “Jimmy Kimmel Live!” Clearly, the members don’t beat themselves up over the odd compromise or major festival slot. “I don’t feel at peace with that performance,” says Gavin, hung up on the idea that the band didn’t do enough with its platform.
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Gavin, on the night before the election, grabbed her crotch on the band’s first TV appearance (“The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon,” no less). To that end, Muna tweets about politics every day, and the act wore anti-Donald Trump T-shirts at Chicago’s Lollapalooza last summer. “We’re a 21st century band - we’re speaking directly to our audience,” McPherson says.
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