Album Review: WET TENNIS by Sofi Tukker
Presented by Bitchfork
Review by Emma Gardner + Sarah Ostresh
Section / Genre: Music Reviews
WET TENNIS by Sofi Tukker
Rating: 4 wet balls out of 5
Everything’s better when wet. Fortunately there’s little dryness to be found on Sofi Tukker’s 2022 release WET TENNIS. The duo consists of Sophie Hawley-Weld and Tucker Halpern, athletic denizens of music who met at Brown University in 2014. Several years before Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’s Challengers soundtrack won a Golden Globe for Best Original Score, Sofi Tukker was busy with their own thesis on racquet-based transcendence.
WET TENNIS is an acronym for “When Everyone Tries to Evolve, Nothing Negative Is Safe.” As tennis players and ravegoers, we invite you to break down the album with us, shot by shot. It simultaneously represents three sublime activities—a tennis match; a rave; and a sexual encounter—which all play together on Sofi Tukker’s court.
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“Kakkee” = juice
We begin, pulsing with anticipation. Attraction’s in the air and there’s sport to be played. “Kakkee” opens the album—legally, “k” is the funniest sound and Sofi Tukker has doubled down. Doubles will be a theme. Sophie has explained in interviews that she wanted the accompanying video to show her “getting myself off from my own juices” via a wet persimmon between her legs. She sings a ridiculous poem in Portuguese, composed for the song by the Brazilian poet Chacal. Take her seriously and also not at all. Elaborate stretching routines are welcome.
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“Original Sin” = flirts
“Original Sin” is the high of initial attraction. It’s, Fuck, this is awesome and I can’t believe anything bad about you. You’re not good at tennis? I’ll still play with you every week, baby. The music is rhythmic, steady; we’re warming up. Sophie sings: “The state that you’re in is … innocent.” You’re a little fucked up, I am too—how excellent. Ultimately, you’re not to blame for doing drugs, for wanting to flirt and rave. You’re absolved!
You begin to notice the other player’s quirks and ticks, their little hair-flick and shorts-touch before each point. It’s going to be a great match.
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“Summer in New York” = serendipity
Now we’re getting vibey and nostalgic. Life is blessed and we’ve “got all day long just to walk down the street.” Can you even imagine? It’s a performance to be outside, to play tennis, to rave. Sophie is planning, imagining, scheming: How will the match go?
Anything could happen within this safe, colorful world. A moment of reverence for “Tom’s Diner,” the original track that Sofi Tukker samples. Here is a trace of the essence, a nod to the long, storied history of tennis. Singer Suzanne Vega’s raw, drippy a capella vocals reveal her appetite for a man who'll pour her coffee, who’ll be impressive, who’ll do something Anyone could win this match, the night could go anywhere. There’s no path dependence here, boys. No sunk cost fallacy, no goddamned fomo. Do not lock in. The song insists upon its romanticism: it’s not that fucking hard to be romantic. Corollary: it’s not that hard to have a fun night in the city. Especially when there’s nice, white fun to be had. The song nods to actual favelas in Brazil, but we’re courtside at the US Open. This song is commuting from New Haven to New York City for entertainment during a global pandemic. Isn’t it fun to have a yuppie weekend?
Oh, and we’re fully dancing now, making out with our crush. You are the main character, babe. You’ll always have a better time if you commit to the premise.
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“Forgive Me” = tenuousness
A mood of deeper infatuation is set by a slinky, Middle Eastern groove. Uh oh, the ball hits the tape and trickles over. I see you and I say, “I'm sorry,” because I respect you and I love you. Tennis is decorum. Sophie offers, “Let me help you,” but quickly backtracks: “Okay, maybe not.” She’s cheeky. And still wants to win this match, obviously.
Next Sofi croons, “Does it please you when I’m full of shame?” Shut off those bright LEDs of American Christian guilt so we can enjoy the flickers of disco balls and galaxy lights bouncing around the court. We’re still smacking lips with our crush, beginning some flamboyant foreplay. An alluring violin adds sensuality and notes of sandalwood, a striking collaboration with Turkish producer Mahmut Orhan. We’re malleable; we can train.
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“Wet Tennis” = pure play
More spiritual arrogance and we love Sofi Tukker for it. If you knew what we knew, you’d be playing tennis and going to raves with us every week. Horns change the pace—we’re in the middle of the match now, fully dancing and swinging with each other. Bring your hips to life—duh! Nothing feels better than using the body in these peak activities.
Challengers didn’t invent the sex-tennis link; since 2022, Sofi Tukker has been singing, “I wanna play wet tennis all night with you.” Tennis has long been a fabulous proxy for sex. And while this opinion may risk alienating some readers: sex should always be wet!
Tukker’s use of the modal verb can in the refrain “We can play wet tennis” is subtly brilliant—can is the ultimate tennis verb. A single shot can change everything; anyone can still win at any point in the match. Sofi Tukker never declares that we must play wet tennis, merely suggests that we might. Will you accept their invitation? Is it time to put down the post-COVID pickle paddle and wrap your hands around a racquet worthy of your attention?
Take careful note of the numbers here. Did the Challengers love triangle produce anything but fleeting sexual satisfaction? No, because three is a cursed number in tennis and in love. Sofi Tukker graciously provides paired options: “one on one” or “two on two” are ideal configurations for the consummation of wet tennis. A queer, interconnected rectangle is clearly superior to any love triangle.
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“Interlude” = thesis
When Everyone Tries to Evolve, Nothing Negative is Safe. Sofi sings beautifully of tennis, of gracefully hitting a shot down the line to force an error. I love it when you push me into the alley. Slap me in the face with the balls … Very respectfully.
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“Sun Came Up” = break
Uh oh, you tried to leave and then your song came on so you got a third wind. It’s 3:30 a.m. and your friend Sarah turns to you and says, “The night is young,” and you’re like, “So true.” Time doesn’t matter because we’re playing sopping wet tennis.
We’re stepping out to sip some air and sponge a cigarette.
E: Will nicotine improve our game?
S: It’ll ground us.
E: How fucked up are we? Is the music submerging us into a trance too deep?
S: Does the stark contrast of the quiet outdoors reveal that we’re not deep enough?
E: Let’s chug some electrolytes and continue on our sprightly way.
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“Larry Bird” = basketball man
Another sport enters—to whistles, cheers. A big nod to Tucker Halpern’s basketball past. The album is nothing if not sporty. We’re getting tribal sounds, yet chanting as if we’re at a high school pep rally. Whatever gets the people going. When the crowd becomes one, waves pulsing through the sea of ravers, each drop feels like a crash, a release.
A match—sex or tennis—is so like a rave. Each *set* is a different vibe. A rave could and should be held on a tennis court, the net acting as kink-forward decor or actual prop for consensually tying up the adventurous. The vibe could change in a second, could command your undivided attention and intense participation, or your passive, pleasant rallying. The only constant is sound.
You get 90 seconds to sit down, grab your gum and mood lifters, and then we’re getting up to dance again.
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“Hold” = held
We’ve *held* serve, holding each other’s bodies, ourselves. PLUR vibes. We’ve got no distractions, we’re deep in the flow, never questioning who brought us here or where we’ll end the night. Playing against our crush, at first, the competition is sexy. But now that we’re winning it hurts to see them sad. I’ll hold me (my serve) and I’ll hold you, too (break yours). Starting off slow and sultry, the song makes a swift return to an upbeat chorus, maintaining interludes of longing. I’ll hold you, baby, and I’ll still beat you.
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“Mon Cheri” = luv
Specifically, eternal love. The game began with love and only grows from there. A West African guitar strums, Sofi sings in Portuguese what translates to: “time skyrockets, when the rhythm stops.” Sofi’s bright vocals offer a slippery contrast with the grunginess of featured artists Amadou & Mariam.
We’ve reached a comfortable lull in the match; the rallies are not the most varied but hey, we’ve lasted this long and we’re still playing. Two thirds of the way through the track, we’re dunked into a pool of sound. If you’re not on your feet, we can only assume you’re doing Level Two dancing: lying on your back, flailing your limbs wildly, receiving.
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“Freak” = aaah
Are we tweaking? Suddenly we’re in a desert, bereft of vibes. We’re briefly questioning why we’re here, questioning everything under the dry sun while we’re at it. This song exists for the ravers who never go outside; heads down, moving within one square foot of space the whole night, they take “no talking on the dancefloor” very seriously. We’ll be outside enjoying an oral fixation rather than weather this persistent poking.
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“What a Wonderful World” = bliss
Post-nut, post-rave, post-match clarity. Louis Armstrong might appreciate the dewiness of this faithful cover. It’s the perfect cold shower after all the sweat and partying. Sofi sings sweetly of watching babies crying, and you’ll drift off like one, your righteous tennis and partying duties fulfilled. The bleachers empty, only juices remain; it is finally time to rest. A dreamless sleep of 14 hours awaits you. The tracks on WET TENNIS are partners, but each has a signature style of play. Quick changeovers limit cohesiveness but keep us stimulated. After each serve, it’s a new beginning; a chance to change the pace of the game.