Acid House Kings' fifth LP isn't menacing, once you get past the absolutely terrifying cover. Do they have Olan Mills in Sweden? Is it haunted? The eyes just follow you. But visions of some wainscoted dystopia where bands wear turtlenecks and play acoustic Kraftwerk medleys are dispelled as "That's How You Drive Me" pops in like a pacifier, with all of the comfort and none of the sucking. Its gauzy lilt establishes the album's tone, an effortlessly levitating pastiche of Bacharachian flourishes and precious anorak harmonies, with the faintly lingering musk of something pulled out of mothballs.
Major chords are accustomed to shouting, but this is how they sound when they whisper. Bandleader Johan Angergård makes sure the music doesn't get too placid to make an impression by embedding little brain-tattoos into the songs, like the giddy handclaps on "Do What You Wanna Do" and hipster-dork fingersnaps on "This Heart Is a Stone". This is a sterling example of modern twee with everything in its right place, from the flawless melodies to the droll lyrics: "They say your middle name is trouble/ But I know it's Caroline." Comparisons to Belle & Sebastian and Camera Obscura are both inevitable and unfair, since Acid House Kings predates both. Still, it doesn't help any that the rhythm guitar on "That's How You Drive Me" sounds exactly like a fuller version of B&S;'s "Dog on Wheels", or that the lead guitar on "This Heart Is a Stone" sounds a lot like the one on Camera Obscura's "Before You Cry". And how many writers have beaten me to Acid House Kings of Convenience? Whatever; that all this modern naïve-pop sounds the same is part of its appeal, although it's possible that Acid House Kings is a little more calculating than it would appear.
Wearing their hearts on the tongues in their cheeks, Acid House Kings presents its achingly earnest songs with such seamless artifice that it approaches performance art. It doesn't stop with the ghastly cover; the first edition of the album comes with a bonus DVD containing three videos and a karaoke version of the album. The karaoke speaks for itself-- realize that you can't sing after all as you watch the band play ping-pong and pull shots of espresso. It's the videos that are of interest. Somewhere between Warhol and "Laugh-In", their stark pastels recreate a time that might have sort of existed but probably didn't, when everyone wore cardigans and comb-overs; danced stiltedly to fey pop music; read Marx for pleasure. Post-irony or the new sincerity? Either way, the surface of the presentation (like that of the songs) is smooth as glass-- watching Julia Lannerheim smile beatifically while singing about getting her heart broken on "7 Days" (Amy Millan fans: This song owns you), nonchalantly dancing while her bandmates ham it up behind her, is pretty unsettling. But the simplicity of the video imbues her with a sort of iconic presence, like she's every girl who ever danced to a sad song. So what, like, Plato meets the Lucksmiths? The tragic and the adorable vie for attention, which, in this genre, is just par for the course.
