At press time, there exist three versions of вЂњFuture NostalgiaвЂќ on major streaming services, each one offering another chance to draw listeners back with more material: There was the original, and then there was the now-perfunctory вЂњdeluxeвЂќ edition afforded to every substantial pop release, and then came вЂњClub Future Nostalgia,вЂќ a top-down remix of the entire album fashioned by the famed underground D.J. LipaвЂ™s yearlong promo run was a master class in maintaining ubiquity. Handclaps and stray vocoder lines orbit LipaвЂ™s voice as she urges listeners on, pressing them in the same manner of the fitness instructor she played in one recent video: вЂњCome on/Dance with me.вЂќ The latest and possibly greatest, вЂњLevitating,вЂќ features production work by the onetime Madonna collaborator Stuart Price and sounds practically like someone pulling the string on a party popper. (Taylor Swift, who commanded the massesвЂ™ quarantined attention with not one but two surprise releases, was a notable exception.) But Lipa and her party-hardy perspective had remarkable stamina вЂњFuture NostalgiaвЂќ owes its success to a seemingly never-ending stretch of incredible singles. Such circumstances would normally dictate that an album simply disappear - which is, in fact, what happened to a surprising number of 2020вЂ™s big pop albums. вЂњFuture NostalgiaвЂќ offered a soundtrack to precisely the type of wild night that had gone extinct by the time the record actually reached listeners. Right around the pandemicвЂ™s true kickoff moment in the United States, the British pop star released her second album, вЂњFuture Nostalgia,вЂќ a polished trip through several eras of dance music: discoвЂ™s groovy pulse, new waveвЂ™s punchy synths, the brash colors of the 1980s New York club-kid house music that Madonna spent her early years so cannily borrowing from. The candy-coated вЂњTrolls World TourвЂќ showed us a pulsing mass of cotton-haired creatures, all under one ridiculous roof, raving to Daft PunkвЂ™s eternally joyful вЂњOne More Time.вЂќ For once, there was a vague sense of disappointment that we were not Trolls, too.ДЇew human artists stoked this phantom-limb FOMO (how can we fear missing out if thereвЂ™s nothing to miss out on?) like Dua Lipa. Even childrenвЂ™s movies seemed to be rubbing it in. There was the British singer Jessie WareвЂ™s fourth album, вЂњWhatвЂ™s Your Pleasure?вЂќ: It evoked peak-era discoвЂ™s mirror-ball largess, all for listeners whose idea of a вЂњnight outвЂќ had most likely been reduced to an extra trip to the grocery store. There was Steve McQueenвЂ™s intimate and lovely film вЂњLovers Rock,вЂќ in which you could watch a packed room of West London revelers sway and sing to Janet KayвЂ™s reggae single вЂњSilly GamesвЂќ - lost in the moment, no social distancing necessary. So many striking musical moments from the past months have reminded us that we cannot, at the moment, be together.

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