You might assume that being a bad bitch is a universal language: one that transcends time, space, and social media to gag listeners both near and far. But when it comes to making oneself known, a closet full of high fashion and a metric tonne of attitude has proven to only ever be part of the equation. As American “A-Pop” plays catch-up to its Asian counterparts with military-precise, skibidi-brained slaying, the blueprint for a new kind of global performer has emerged. This new diva crosses borders, genres, and languages while keeping her cool intact; a proven star on her own turf who is flexible enough to incorporate regional and diasporic sounds and sensibilities without breaking a sweat. Whether they want to own their lane or conquer the charts, international pop acts who aim to assert themselves increasingly depend on acts of translation: distilling deep roots and local swagger into something unique and accessible for the whole world to hear.
Helena Gao draws attention to this act of interpretation more dramatically than most. The Danish Chinese musician isn’t simply a bad girl, she’s niú bī (牛逼) and that distinction is both subtle and important. A fixture in Copenhagen’s alternative scene, Gao has lately become one of its most fascinating pop crossovers. She struck it big last year with her Grammy-nominated production on Zara Larsson’s Midnight Sun, lending a mother-of-pearl shimmer to the Swedish diva’s Viking-apocalypse belting. But in Asia, she’s best known for “Lao Shi,” an effervescent piece of dance-pop that became a viral hit on Douyin (aka TikTok). Zipping between lovestruck English verses and an unmistakably sexy Mandarin chorus (which translates to “teacher, teach me how to love”), the song was received both warmly and with some bafflement. The lyrics may initially scan as relatively tame by the standards of global pop, but some Chinese-speaking fans were shocked to hear such a forward perspective expressed in Mandarin. On Gao Dan Dan, her latest EP, the singer doubles down on boldness, taking her multi-cultural cool and concentrating it into a collection of bilingual pop gems.
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Gao’s output has steadily evolved from vocal-driven folk-pop to unapologetic club fare, with the electronic flourishes that once underlined her songwriting becoming her most striking musical signature. Like Luka Kloser and Elvira Anderfjärd—known for their work for Addison Rae—or Quiet Light, Gao has a preference for soft-hued synths that glisten and resonate when paired with perfectly calibrated percussion. On more romantic songs like “Lao Shi” and “Nanana,” the musician dials up the brightness, so that at key moments her synths illuminate and glance off the surface of her beats like a flurry of heart emojis. The upsurge in her production also goes a long way to communicate Gao’s feelings when words seem to fail. Neither English nor Mandarin manages to capture how much the artist’s lover means to her on “Bi Bu Shang Ni,” but the escalating synths absolutely do, building up her longing until the emotion outpaces her singing altogether.
Daniel D`Amico for SANREMO.FM
