Concretes |
Concretes |
With a dirty concoction clinging to the car’s underside and a melted pooling of now underneath the desk, the Aisle needed a burst of sunshine to clear the senses and maybe do something about this dry skin. The Concretes don’t moisturize, but they instill a mindset that heliotherapy is just a crack in the clouds away.
On the Swedish band’s self-titled debut album, The Concretes combine the innocence of the Ronettes, the studio trickery of Spiritualized, the throwback pop of a band like Beulah and just a smidge of Hope Sandoval’s seductive vocals to create eminently hum-able songs goofy in their brilliance. The band takes a cue from the Beach Boys’ most fulfilling tracks by filling the two-minute “You Can’t Hurry Love” with the types of hooks that most songs extend for way too long. So instead of overdosing on singer Victoria Bergsman’s sweet vocals, the song finds itself captured fresh and pure, like the old ocean-in-the-seashell mindtrick with a celebratory horn interlude. This isn’t exactly a “Where’s da Bacardi at” summer bash soundtrack, however. “Love” gives way to “Chico,” the loneliest song you’ll hear from a band eight-members deep. As for the chorus (which sounds like, “He was … fortune teller”) it certainly sounds like it should mean something. Instead, this debut features enough variations to fit any mix CD’s mood. The highlight, though, has to be “Diana Ross.” The song, which details a love for listening to the titular singer’s “Love Hangover,” bursts with a melancholy more genuine than its inspiration. Steady, forceful drumming gives the song an added energy, like looking outside at the plow trucks scraping past and anticipating their retirement for the season. |
Originally published in The MidWeek, as written by Hank Brockett |