Before listening to In Colour, I was sure I liked the Concretes. After listening to In Colour, I wasn't sure if I ever liked the Concretes. The album is noticeably different from their previous material: shambling rhythms are tightened, the Velvets-meets-Motown sway of their eponymous 2004 LP is replaced with an Elton-meets-Lilith piano-led pounce, and the band's former psych-tinged production now sounds as uncluttered as an empty apartment.
The Swedish octet was always blatantly commune-ish-- organic tomatoes and homespun sweaters all the way-- but the free love was usually tempered by deep, vulnerable heartbreak that broke through such peaceful vibes. The band's best song to date, "Say Something New" from The Concretes, details the apparent awkward last words of a relationship; we never learn the exact utterance, but we know the crushed receiver wants to hear something-- anything-- else. On In Colour that kind of shrouded hurt is wiped away by lyrics that consistently reach inexcusable levels of banality along with a new sound concocted with the help of usually reliable Bright Eyes multi-tasker Mike Mogis that squeezes out the group's groove. What's left is toothless Sunday morning schmaltz.
Bouncing forth with the permanent-smile major-chord plunks of opener "On the Radio", these troubadours flip their hand straight off. Streamlined to hell, it's still a technical wonder with the group's myriad voices finding a distinct home within the mix. But the collective effect is lessened, no matter how pristinely it floats from the speakers. Nico-esque lead singer Victoria Bergsman doesn't sound as enticing inside the pretty sonic paradise either, her naïve quivers neutralized and smoothed out. It's too much, too content, too polite-- and "On the Radio" is one of the better tracks on the record.
Way worse is the queasy break-up duet featuring Concrete Lisa Milberg and lead Magic Number Romeo Stodart. "I call, you hang up" goes the hook between the two. The bogged-down instrumentation and simplistic sentiment somehow comes off like a screwed take on "Puff the Magic Dragon", which, although admittedly intriguing, is ultimately unlistenable. Meanwhile, another decrepit snail of a song, "Tomorrow", doesn't even last four minutes but-- with its echoes of Annie and an endless muted trumpet passage that stagnates like rotten garlic-- seems to drag on for hours.
Almost everything that was unique and compelling about the Concretes-- including the faux-country sashay, the Diana Ross worship, and the willful wobble-- is pitifully underrepresented on In Colour. Before, it seemed like these beautiful free spirits were just cranking out great happy-sad songs, one of which happened to sneak into a Target commercial. Now it seems like they're trying to make music for a Target commercial.
