Throwaway pop artists, despite the heaps of critical and elitist disdain heaped upon them and the negative connotations they routinely perform under, couldn’t exist under a more precarious balancing act. Record a shitty, everyday pop song, and you’re scorned, your artistic credibility sunk, torn down as overly derivate or robotically manufactured, and your long-term career doomed to happy hour residencies at Margaritavilles in family-styled resort towns once the record company declines your third album option. But write that perfect pop song and you become acceptable, nay, cool to like, someone that critics and prepubescent girls can mutually agree successfully taps that hidden bone in our body that makes us move our hips like “yeah.” Write two and you’re set. Write two whole album’s worth, and you have Norwegian electro-pop savant Annie.