It's already been well-established elsewhere in Pitchfork's deep annals that Sweden is neither a land devoted to the frivolous pursuit of happiness, nor a place where people mope in the gloom waiting for Death to challenge them to a game of backgammon. To make such sweeping generalizations about a people as diverse or cold as the Swedes is crass and shortsighted; it betrays a shocking lack of cultural relativism. National temperaments and temperatures aside, though, one thing must by now be certain-- and call this a gross generalization if you must, but: without American Rock and Roll, no Swedish bands would ever have been good at anything.
Last-year's models, The Hives, were just the latest in an evolving line of acts hell-bent on stealing some good ol' American thunder, copping a couple vintage licks, and giving them enough gas to make most of our own sleepyheaded retro flag-bearers look limp in comparison. Beaten at our own game! The day an American band can't rip-off The Ramones as well as some clean-shaven, well-dressed foreigners is a sad day indeed. If only they weren't so consistently damn good at it.
The latest installment in Sweden's rock 'n' roll clinic comes courtesy of the uniformly modded-out guys in Mando Diao, and they appear to have smash-and-grab routine down as well, if not better, than their forebears. Technically, the origin of Mando Diao's pilfered sonics is probably closer to the likes of The Who, The Kinks, or Creation, but the British Invaders were just taking lessons from Motown, the Blues, and a little Chuck Berry anyway, so it's not like Mando Diao's more than one step removed from our musical ancestors. And besides, no matter how many steps it took to get to their brand of soul-rock pastiche, on Bring 'Em In, their very first album, they absolutely nail it. Organs and tambourines flutter just at the edges of classic, "My Generation"-sized riffs, tapping into the awesome power of some of the most basic roots of 60s rock and executing it perfectly. They even cultivate an air of being exactly 31% reckless and carefree in said execution-- the ideal, scientifically calculated percentage found to maximize the perception that they're somehow not borrowing shamelessly from their betters.
Knowing the ratio will not render you immune. It's to Mando Diao's credit that, as easy as it is to rattle off a litany of easy influences, they come out sounding very much their own entity. The guitar line central to "Sheepdog", Bring 'Em In's opening track, wastes no time letting the listener that he or she is indeed about to be rocked into the ground, as immediately recognizable as some of Roger Daltrey's second-tier riffs, but bristling with the pent-up aggression that skipped his generation and went straight to the Heartbreakers. The Kinks' maximum R&B; rock gets a similar treatment: "Paralyzed" is descended from the genes of "Sweet Lady Genevieve", but trades that song's high-minded instrumental flourishes for a shot of pleasantly low-brow vitality.
The album is so casually frantic, in fact, that Mando Diao stumble briefly in transition, at times, from the maniacal bliss-outs like "Motown Blood" (check the name in case you think I'm making this stuff up) into slower, more somber moments like "Mr. Moon". The deceleration between the two can cause whiplash, and "Moon" happens to be the album's weakest moment in and of itself, hampered by some unfortunately severe invocations to "Mishtah Moo" (or at least it sounds like it). It's the only instance where Bjorn Dixgard's vocals fail him, though, and in all seriousness, the guy can't help an accent. It's just unlucky that it sounds so momentarily out of place; he then proceeds to channel a hint of James Brown to kick off "Lady", and totally redeems that one false move.
In general, between Dixgard and Gustaf Noren, who trade vocal duties, these songs are sung with reverence, and sincerity, and passion, to a degree which is truly impressive, and the band's dynamic, classic roots match them at every turn. It's convenient, I guess, to even imagine that this might be a posture, exacerbated by the passing similarity of tracks like "Sheepdog" to the leading revivalists on this side of the pond, The Strokes, but it's hard to listen to the entire album and still believe that. It's just not easy to fake the evident enthusiasm here. Mando Diao is stealing our rock 'n' roll thunder, but if we can't produce anyone to offer them some competition, I suppose they're welcome to it.
