The sprawling ragbag democracy and fascination for obscure vocal groups of the nineteen-sixties that defined this Swedish eight-piece’s first album appears to have been supplanted by a far clearer commercial perspective and the election of Victoria Bergsman as leader, subtle though it is. Out go the garage references, the ragbag, crazy time signatures, out goes the Velvet Underground, The Ronettes, Phil Spector, the tatty drum sounds and Mazzy Star and out too goes the band’s first producer, Jari Haapalainen, presumably to make way for the softer and more accessible ears of musical director, Mike Mogis, producer for Bright Eyes, Jenny Lewis and The Faint. So prepare for some changes, although how welcome they are depends largely on what you loved about them the first time around. So if you loved the super-charged tambourines, the wall-to-wall hand clapping, the Hammond Organs and the fantastically peculiar and intoxicating way Jari Haapalainen put all the sounds together you’re likely to be disappointed. If on the otherhand you fell hook line and sinker for Bergsman’s gentle bonhomie and skewed lyrical charm then you’re likely to remain as chuffed as a butty. So here’s the forecast…
‘On The Radio’ arrives on a breeze of daisies and the spring-time feel of ‘Sunbeams’ literally forces the bulbs out of the ground with its lazy, strolling guitar chops, some playful harmonies and a cosy, yawning horn-section. Compared to the cold, pasty stylishness of the band’s delightfully clever debut – even down to the title and sleeve-art – the rosy, rural hug of affection offered by the new album suggests a new found confidence within the circle. And with ‘Change In The Weather’ arriving in a pool of sunshine and The Magic Number’s Romeo Stoddard guesting on the sweet exchange of apologies that make up the pretty ‘Your Call’, The Concretes’ gentle transformation from goofy, sixties oddballs into lilting, harmonious folksters with a rainbow of good intentions is complete.
It’s not all pedal-steel guitars and cowboy hats by any means, but try though ‘Fiction’ does to spoil the weather, the rigid beats and stormy intro literally collapse under the collective wistfulness of ‘Tomorrow’, ‘As Four’ and ‘Grey Days’, before ‘Song For The Songs’ jumps right out of bed, wolfs down a bowl of cornflakes, slips on a pair of sandals and leaps off into the sunset in a feathery cloud of angel dust.
You might scoff at the shameless whimsicality of the album, and you may lament the passing of the equally shameless retro affectations but only a man with a dry old leathery prune instead of a heart could remain unmoved by such an uncomplicated romance.
The Concretes. Now in Colour. The risk of showers seems impossible.