Every so often I need to be reminded that Britain and America are not necessarily the ultimate purveyors of popular music. The Lucksmiths do it, they creep up behind me all the time, and tap me on the shoulder and say ‘...don’t forget about Australia?’, The Concretes and Harry Hunks have insisted that Scandinavia gets a look in and Tugboat have recently put forward a very good case for the otherwise totally unheard of Canadian pop scene. With this in mind I am pleased to read in the press release for this record that the Shout Out Louds hail from Sweden, home of possibly the bestest indie pop scene in the world today and the fittest ladies hockey team ever.

There isn’t too much too technical with this record, at no point does it even get near disappearing up it’s own arse. There is no pretention, no posturing or posing, none whatsoever, it’s simple, pure, valid pop music. It fights back from the corner against all those mainstream tossers who have bastardised pop music over the last decade, I’m thinking the boy bands, the girl groups (who never come close to their ‘60’s Motown namesakes), I’m thinking the Gareth Gates and his entourage of T.V. talent show heroes who have defiled the charts for too long now and destroyed the hopes and pop dreams of a whole generation. The Shout Out Louds are railing against all that crap, they are standing proud and waiting to be counted with a bold two fingers to what the kids are supposed to be listening to these days. At last, we don’t have to wade through the mire to find the good stuff, at last, pop is back.

The album opens with a kick and a start and a bleep reminiscent of the signal to the skier at the top of the downhill at Val D’Isere (Ski Sunday viewers will know what I mean) before exploding into the thrusting bass chord throb of The Comeback. With it’s upbeat vibrancy and rudimentary lead guitar lines it sets the scene perfectly for what follows. Very Loud keeps up the pace in a similar vein, there is obviously a lot of fun being had here musically, which draws the listener away from the hints of despair in the lyrics. There is a formula developing, but is certainly no bad thing, not when the results are this good. A Track and a Train, and Go Sadness are more considered affairs, not so much dizzy romps, but still buzzing with melody and laden with hook lines. It’s all so infectious, it seeps in on your breath and before you know it these songs are coursing through your veins and surging on your internal organs, they take hold and take over and you have no option but to submit. It’s a thrilling disease, and one that should take us all.

With Please Please Please the essence of the essential three minute pop song is captured with consummate ease, it’s hard not to mooch around the room, it’s that effective, and again, despite the plaintive pleas of the lyrics the music is happy happy happy, a song to jump around to with glee glee glee.

100 Degrees belies the bands Scandinavian roots with insistent references to The Concretes and their Moog driven speed thrill of disco throb pop, whilst There’s Nothing slows the tempo again slightly as a kind of album based middle eight just in time for the double whammy of Hurry Up, Lets Go and Shut Your Eyes, two out and out, unashamedly pop-tastic revelations that leave the listener reeling and dizzy, the former is a rollercoaster ride and the latter another rollercoaster ride, both laden with lusciousness, with saccharine, with speed and with thrills. Impossible to ignore, impossible not to be infected with, another, as if it could happen this way, record of the summer – and without exception destined to make those long dark winter nights so much more bearable. I am pencilling this into my January listening schedule right now.

With ‘Howl Howl Gaff Gaff’ we have a perfect pop record (and you don’t need me to tell you that those are becoming somewhat of a rarity these days), it’s simple, melodious, pulsing, thrilling pop, it’s a summer set for all year round, it’s a brazen, brash cardigan swinging cavalcade of lush hooklines and perfect lyrical ensembles. It’s three chords and a glass of Ribena – not so rock and roll, but who really cares about that these days?

Lets Indie pop!

Johnny Mac

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