With The Vildes releasing “Manicure for the Strangers”, I found myself instinctively checking my reflection in the black screen of my monitor, correcting a frown that absolutely no one was around to see. It’s an uncanny reaction, but then again, Ingvild Tafjord, Hilde Wahl, and Glenn Tvedt specialize in this specific breed of beautifully curated anxiety. They understand the weight of the mask.
The track performs a sonic sleight of hand. It enters with resonant keystrokes, sombre and hesitant, almost polite. Then, without warning, the floor drops out, replaced by a rhythmic, subterranean low-end pulse that drives the song into true Melodic House territory. It’s glossy, undeniably energetic, yet strangely isolating like dancing alone in a room made entirely of chrome. The oscillating digital textures and manipulated vocal chops swirl through the mix like confetti falling in slow motion, glittering but ultimately trash on the floor.
Listening to this, my mind jumped to the historical practice of Ohaguro in Japan dyeing one’s teeth black to hide the natural color, a beauty ritual that signified maturity but arguably masked the decay beneath. “Manicure for the Strangers” feels like the modern auditory equivalent. The song explores the exhaustion of the “perfect” exterior, suggesting that our grooming rituals are actually combat armor. We paint ourselves to survive the scrutiny of people who don’t actually care if we breathe.
The contrast between the gentle verses and the propulsive, detached chorus highlights the fracture between who we are and who we pretend to be. It’s pop-electronica for the girl crying in the bathroom of a very expensive club.
The Vildes have crafted a track that feels less like a party anthem and more like a frantic heartbeat disguised as a drum loop. If we stop polishing the surface, will we simply disappear?
