Pitchfork

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.