For fans who have followed MUNA since the beginning, Dancing On The Wall arrives like a familiar friend with sharper edges. The band’s mix of candid desire and anxious pop has been a soundtrack for many private scenes: late-night confessions, small triumphant moments, and those embarrassing one-am-texts we all regret. This piece approaches the album as a kind of emotional barometer, ranking each song by how likely it is to push you into contacting an old flame. Expect praise for the writing, nods to the production, and a frank catalogue of temptation.
I came to MUNA as a teenager when the Loudspeaker EP was new, spending afternoons devoted to their songs and even assembling a homemade zine clipped with band photos and glued collages—an exercise that left me with a lingering neck ache I would happily repeat. Those early attachments shape how I hear Dancing On The Wall: Naomi McPherson’s production and Katie Gavin’s lyrics feel like the same beating heart, now matured and more daring. The album trades in both vulnerability and rage, pairing 80s-inspired synth urgency with lyrics that refuse to look away.
Why this album lands
Dancing On The Wall synthesizes the group’s strengths: the intimate confessions of earlier records, the political edge that’s threaded through songs like “Big Stick”, and a refusal to hide queerness in metaphors. Naomi McPherson’s production borrows from new wave textures—pulsing arpeggios, taut drums, and shimmering pads—that create a nervous energy across the record. Katie Gavin’s voice and lines trade between lust, cynicism, and weary hope, making these tracks potent when you’re alone at 2 a.m. The album works as both a dancefloor record and a private diary: it makes you move while also making you think about who you used to be and who you might still text.
Tracks ranked by ex-text temptation
Least likely to make you reach out
“Buzzkiller” opens this list because, though emotionally brutal, it’s the track that shuts the door on longing. Where older MUNA songs might allow for wistful acceptance, this one internalizes blame and declares a relationship’s fizzled romance as inevitable—an anti-texting anthem that forces self-reflection rather than reaction. Following that, the two-part “Party’s Over / Big Stick” offers a political bite: it starts as a critique of overconsumption and influencer culture and escalates into a commentary on media and militarized power. That kind of outward-focused outrage makes you want to organize or rant, not slide into an ex’s DMs.
Temptation rises: memory, craving, and comparisons
“Mary Jane”, a frank ode to dependency and comfort, is more slippery. Its admission of using a familiar escape to cope reads like an invitation to revisit old habits; the song’s warmth can make you nostalgic for any person who once soothed you. “Girl’s Girl” captures the ache of wanting someone who consistently chooses chaos—there’s passive glee in watching their missteps, but that covert longing can easily translate into a late-night text typed and deleted half a dozen times. Meanwhile, “So What” parades confidence on the surface yet fractures beneath; it’s a performative victory lap you might post about, a public shrug that privately still aches.
Irresistible pulls and summer heat
“Wannabeher” plays with desire in a way that makes you both envy and crave the object—do you want to be loved by them, or to be them? That blurry longing is the kind that prompts petty messages and impulsive likes. “On Call” flips the usual power dynamic, exposing the habit of putting your life on hold for someone else; the line between being available and being used is paper-thin and often prompts relapse into old response patterns. “Eastside Girl” is full of communal in-jokes and geography-coded longing; it’s the record’s most social tune, and it invites reaching out to old friends and exes to commiserate about shared scenes.
Closing tracks: temptation and surrender
The duo of “…Unless” and “Why Do I Get A Good Feeling” sit in that dangerous place where you know an exchange will go poorly but the sensation feels redeeming in the moment. Those songs dramatize the exact mental calculus of the midnight text: insight meets temptation. Finally, “It Gets So Hot” is a humid, feverish summer confession—its sweaty, fevered imagery can make you nostalgic for previous summers and the people who defined them, increasing the odds that you’ll pick up the phone. Together these closing moments leave you feeling dizzy, the album’s choreography of desire complete.
Ultimately, Dancing On The Wall is a record that alternates between resistance and surrender. It contains both songs that steady you and songs that pry open old wounds; that duality is exactly why it resonates. Whether you end the night deleted, dignified, or typing furiously, MUNA has provided a pulse to match every mood.