Whilst Scandinavian records of late have often proved synonymous with twee time, What Was Ours Can't Be Yours is as irrevocably engaging as an afternoon spent perspiring profusely in a self-help clinic, thirsting on coarse paranoia just as its title suggests. The Norwegian quartet unite undulating Moog bass with ghostly vox last employed by mid-90s McLachlan (never more empoweringly than on the ultimately ephemeral The Visitor) to conjure a sophomore LP that's gloriously expansive, utterly cinematic. Yet whilst Erlend Ringseth's ebbing swathes of synth virtuosity enliven an already dynamic effort, it's Anne Lise Frøkedal's ethereal aggregating of prog-pop open string Jazzmaster swoons and tenderhearted coo that elevate the Bergen troupe into the realms of the irrefutably exquisite. Old Man (streaming below) sounds like a lost cut of melodrama encountered under powdered snow amidst howling blizzard of kinetic rhythms and haunting faux-strings, whilst No Hero simultaneously embodies the raw throb of Salem and the tender pop sensibilities of Best Coast, intensified to exasperated extent. Extraordinary Girl greatly variates the Harrys Gym theme once more as Asiatic chimes clamber vertiginously towards Frøkedal's paradisiacal vocals, gazing down upon the quartet's routinely breathtaking, electronically-orchestrated backdrop. Next Time meanwhile sounds a little like The xx (were they born and bred in Porsgrunn in place of Putney) resoundingly successfully cross-pollinated with Lower Dens. Perhaps their finest moment however is provided by Toothpaste, a minor key wallow that's as despondent as fresh heartbreak lingering dew-like on a broken heart and sounds all but quintessentially Scandinavian (think The Concretes tussling with Those Dancing Days for the undying affections of Jens Lekman), before the pulsating bass thumps of The Ring intrude on previous desolation, imbuing doings with a distinctly more sanguine approach. On the basis of What Was Ours Can't Be Yours, were Harrys Gym to call it a day tomorrow you'd instantaneously be scuffling in the aisles of HMV in anguished attempt to wrangle its grandiosity onto your record rack. Harrys Gym- Old Man by Splendour
