Such is the kudos conglomerated about Swedish musical output that phrases such as Swedophile now garner approximately 579 results on the world wide web's fave search engine rhyming with frugal, and eight-piece melodramatic disco darlings
The Concretes have certainly injected impetus into such cultural findings. Returning after something of a heavy artistic lay-off, the inconclusively entitled WYWH glistens like the Northern Lights, were they encased in a bittersweet sugar coating, plucked from blackened skies, and devoured apathetically. Opener Good Evening is a glorious, throbbing reintroduction into the subconscious-stirring frigidity purveyed throughout their expansive discography, from their iconic eponymous sophomore outing, to previous sans-Victoria Bergsman LP, Hey Trouble, My Ways a spacious stomp through intergalactic androgyny amidst cowbells and sublimely vacuous guitars reminiscent of Romy Madley Croft's splintered shards of Les Paul shimmer. Crack In The Paint provides a Scandinavian waltz equipped with whirring Hammond organs redolent of regrettably defunct compatriots Hemstad that thuds away at a slumbering, cumbersome BPM rate like a sequined sloth, whilst I Wish We'd Never Met is heart-wrenching discordance at its most beguiling and turns traditional balladry into something irrevocably transcendental. All Day, rooted at the resolute core of the record is slightly disparate from its surroundings, as a sixties slink permeates the wintry demeanour of WYWH, before a truly seductive chorus ambles out from the shadows of retrospective nostalgia; lyrics of staying in bed all day never seemed quite so enticing outside of the realms of contemporary Italian cinema. Tempos then accelerate to the velocity of What We've Become, a funk-indebted romp inundated with clunky drum machine blurts and the gusto of six-string treble tones, before tiptoeing back into arresting cafard in the desolate form of Oh My Love. Knck Knck, devoid of vowels overcompensates with broken hearted allegory lost in translation, and wistful vocals of absolution, Sing For Me recalls the oniric majesty of Primary 1 transposed to the tune of James Cameron soundtrack, and the title-track is stunningly despondent, at times straying into Star Wars theme chord progression, at others reverting to the breathy marvels of Nina Persson were The Cardigans employed as the house band for post-estrangement city tours. As subliminally cockle-thawing as silk veils draped over morning dew, arms ought to be raised aloft to ring in their opulent return.
