Establishing a 'night' on the one most synonymous with the obscenely punctuated Anglicism P.A.R.T.Y. is, I would uneducatedly contend, a tricky business. To do so while illuminating exclusively Scandinavian sonic outpour (albeit sans Swedish impetus these days), I would furthermore hypothesise, only renders the joyous, moderately precarious task at enthusiastic hand all the more treacherous. Irrespective of whether or not
Ja Ja Ja welcome such danger with snow-chilled arms there are plenty of strangers in the vicinity that is The Lexington's sensually lit, salubrious first floor sanctum to suggest these Nordic enthusiasts are laughing, joking, and generally doing similar verbs insinuating authentic elation all the way to the well-crowded bar. And it's sincerely merited.
Trending in floaty, Niki & the Dove-like atmospheric electropop,
Philco Fiction open with the sumptuously blustery Finally, the voice of the Oslo trio's beguiling Turid Alida Solberg resonating with softening clarity as if briskly biting through penetrable haze out from the tranquil heart of a whirring blizzard. For the show revolves around she and the sound centres upon her gelid sighs, the segueing Help! upping the tempo to a bracing thrust humanised somewhat by the tribal thuddery of umpteen floor toms scattered about nervous system-shudderingly adroit drummer boy Andreas Lønmo Knudsrød. We're then coaxed into something of "a guided tour of the album" – the LP in question yesteryear's Take It Personal – as the surging modulations of adrenaline-laced synthesiser initiate The Youth, a track so rejuvenating it could convincingly glide into Vice City soundtrack as innocent civilians are blissfully ignorantly and gravely sadistically reduced to mere blooded skid-marks on sidewalks beneath the tyres of ill-gotten automobiles.
Solberg, pouting strikingly from beneath what faintly resembles an upturned wicker basket, her moves wispy, dispels any such violence and vitriol however and from the dub reflexes of The City to the celestial balladry of the Phil Collins-ish Horizon, the introduction of thunderous live drummage ensures Turid et al. proverbially upstage
Malin & co. It's furthermore as refreshing as a booze-fuelled loll in a luxurious hot tub amidst steaming heaps of snow that despite the central onstage positioning of a laptop it is never to intrude overpoweringly, relegated to the role of dotingly reproducing diligently constructed bits of backing track. They conclude with the gloriously sparse Portrait Of Silence, Solberg affirming a nondescript, if distinctly ticketed event to be a "one of a kind show". Can tonight be deemed thus? Pabst not, although Philco Fiction aren't too many daintily laid footsteps from just that, primarily with this cold yet welcoming paean drenched in twilight dim. If the monumental melodrama intended for its denouement is dampened somewhat by the size of the venue, there's a chill in the air tonight and they purely attribute appositely.
