Kings of Convenience
Quiet is the New Loud
[Source/Astralwerks]
Rating: 5.2
There's a delicate balance to be achieved by men who are to be considered
"good guys" by the female species. The nice guy is a sort of once-removed
son, plagued by an acute insight into society-- a society that allows just
enough room for him to be "sensitive." Of course, if boundaries are
overstepped even slightly, say by a penchant for Oprah Winfrey or gardening,
a "nice guy" runs the risk of societal emasculation, being called the worst
of epithets: a pussy.
Misguided attempts at DuBoisian theory aside, I often find myself in such a
bind, unsure if a love for Jeanette Winterson's outrageously flowery prose is
indeed offset by Milan Kundera's slightly spacier, though equally ornate
writing. (Intuition tells me it doesn't.) Regardless, being in this
semi-fragile, self-important state, I'm completely honest when I say there's
no mistaking the Norwegian duo Kings of Convenience as two gigantic pussies.
I realize that this isn't kosher and that I'm adhering to unfair and ultimately
oppressive constructs of gender roles. That doesn't change the fact that the
Kings are the pansiest musicians this side of James Taylor.
The duo, Erlend Øye and Eirik Glambek Bøe, revel in their softness. The
musical framework they adopt is a sparse brand of acoustic folk more akin to
the work of Nick Drake than just about anyone of the myriad artists to which
Drake is compared. And if there's a curious novelty to listening to a release
on Source/Astralwerks bereft of electronic tinkering, it wears off before the
first listen ends. The formula of acoustic arpeggios, light drumming, tender
pianos, and the occasional subtle horn or string section makes for an album
that's as slight and gentle as Saltines and mineral water. The boys never
deviate from this, and thus Quiet is the New Loud, inane title and all,
never reaches higher than saccharine easy listening.
With midtempo breezes like "Winning a Battle, Losing the War," and "Little
Kids," these innocuous sweetie-pies floss their knack for penning delicate,
pretty songs. Of course, wispiness can't be beaten off for long when lines
like, "Even though I'll never need her/ Even though she's only giving me pain/
I'll be on my knees to feed her/ Spend a day to make her smile again," come
a-sucking. The lyrics here are pitiable to the degree of laughter, and far
more likely to encourage hysterics than introspection.
Quiet is the New Loud, as with any record, has its highlights. "Singing
Softly to Me" and "The Girl from Back Then" are parts one and two of the same
song, and both sport a slinky, blue-eyed jazz sound akin to Van Morrison's
Moondance. "Summer on the Westhill" is notable if only for its vocal
melody which bears intense similarity to Klymaxx's "Meeting in the Ladies
Room." Whether or not this was intentional is anyone's guess, but hearing
echoes of an '80s disco-cheese anthem cushioned in wistful folk music makes
for a nearly fascinating dynamic.
Though equally somber and flighty, Erlend and Eirik wisely keep the vocal
melodrama to a minimum; the only instance of intentionally affected singing
comes during "The Weight of My Words," when Erlend repeatedly belts, "The
weight of my words/ You can't feel it anymore." It's a rare agonizing moment
that illustrates just how Herculean an effort listening to Norwegian nancy
boys whimper testiculessly can be.
It's important to note the inclusion of simultaneous guitars, played by both
members, as well as almost uniformly sung vocals. Erlend and Eirik spend the
bulk of the album in unison, when they're not harmonizing. The set-up reminds
us of another folk duo, this time of the American persuasion: the Indigo Girls.
As if it were even a question, Quiet is the New Loud gives strong
indication that if the duos were to come to blows (hopefully, over what
constitutes "true" folk music), Amy Ray and Emily would kick some major
Scandinavian ass.
-Richard M. Juzwiak