Norweigan duo Konradsen’s debut was written over a period of three years by band members and longtime friends Jenny Marie Sabel and Eirik Vildgren, and the meticulous attention to detail bears this out. Saints and Sebastian Stories moves from one lush set piece to the next, interrupted by the occasional spoken interlude. The instrumentation signifies folk, but the music is less inspired by contemporaries Jesca Hoop or Laura Marling than someone like Blonde-era Frank Ocean, even as the horn arrangements and quirky touches are indebted to Sufjan Stevens. Comparisons abound, though the result is less memorable than the influences.
With the creativity of a bedroom recording and the polish of studio production, these 13 songs often feel like sketches. Found sounds and samples create a sense of familiarity, even when the music meanders. “Dice,” the first song Sabel and Vildgren made together, swaps out traditional percussion for the sounds of cutlery and clinking dishes. “Television Land” arrives with a bizarre prelude from a family friend (both the friend and the track are dubbed “Big Bruce”) before interpolating Bette Midler’s classic “The Rose,” referencing the Brad Pitt baseball drama Moneyball, and incorporating a surprisingly jazzy groove into its climax. The left-field references complement the music’s found-art aesthetic without really clarifying anything.
Lead songwriter Sabel’s voice is airy and upfront, her singing alternating between conventional runs and babbling ad-libs. Still, a record this quiet needs lyrics that deliver, and that’s where Saints and Sebastian Stories begins to fall short. The imagery can be evocative (“Hold me closer/The rest is an odd mistake”), but they are too opaque by half. For every moment of clarity (“Some say I should never be a mother/It’s a loving thought I left to die,” from closer “Written to the Others”) there are long stretches where they seem to be saying nothing much with great effort.
With time the music blends together, until initially beguiling arrangements become less surprising. The drum break in “Give” or the unexpected saxophone solo that closes “Roasted” are gorgeous, but the songs don’t gel. The influences seem to become more overt as well; the self-conscious Justin Vernon mimicry of “Baby Hallelujah” is distracting, and “Warm Wine” recalls José Gonzélez’s electronic experiments without reinterpreting them.
Listeners fond of early 2010s folk like the moody, wandering Ben Howard or Americana trio the Staves will feel at home in Konradsen’s record. Both Howard and the Staves took ambitious detours after finding initial success with less interesting music; Konradsen’s approach skips the groundwork to go for experimentation. It’s folk music untethered from tradition, prioritizing well-crafted production over well-crafted songwriting.
