Pitchfork

There's only one plausible explanation for Sweden's excellent public health care-- they hate our freedom. As such, it's only a matter of time before the U.S. administration runs out of predominantly Muslim countries to test its ordinance on and decides it's time to bomb these uppity Swedes off the map. When this inevitably happens, cultural anthropologists sifting through the Swedish music that's made so much headway in the States over the past couple of years will be presented with a rather misleading portrait of the country.

Studying music by I'm From Barcelona, Peter Bjorn and John, and Jens Lekman, they'll conclude that Ben Gibbard and Stuart Murdoch collaboratively authored the kingdom's public school English curriculum, explaining why Swedes, who must be as diverse as anyone else when expressing in their own tongue, turn into starry-eyed ingénues when they sing in English. They'll knit together a portrait of a populace with polarized emotions-- the most fantastic whimsy on one hand, and the most plangent melancholy on the other-- that spends all its time swooning joyfully into each others' arms or staring forlornly out of windows.

At the level of content, Sweden's Emil Svanängen (who records full-band songs by himself as Loney, Dear) is of a piece with recent Swedish indie pop imports. He's sorry-- honestly sorry-- that he ruined your day. He gets things wrong; he's not accustomed to this. Every lyric on Loney, Noir is engineered to express Svanängen's sensitivity, earnest romanticism, and stubborn optimism. The record brims with the cultivated naiveté of classic anorak music, with Svanängen's lovelorn musings revolving around the uncertainty of first crushes, not the grim intractability of troubled adult relationships.

Despite the current Swede-pop trend's homogeneity, I never tire of it when it's well-turned (as Loney, Noir is), because it allows me access to an emotional space that I've long since left behind, one of sweetness and simplicity that's a welcome respite from adulthood's befogged relativism. This is comfort music, and comfort never goes out of style. And while the aura of dreamy romantic abstraction is the same, Svanängen distinguishes himself from his peers on the structural level.

While at times Loney, Noir indulges in IFB-style Swede-pop's jangly bounce-- the excellent "I Am John" trampolines a exuberant falsetto refrain off of fleet acoustic guitar, dainty chimes, and soft horns-- the bulk of the record is smoother and darker, with a perpetual sense of lubricated glide. The songs tend to start small, and then wax orchestral as Svanängen layers emphases onto his simple melodies. "Sinister in a State of Hope" coasts in on glimmering synths and a chunky guitar strum, tightly wound, which gradually open out with hymn-like fervor. "I Will Call You Lover Again" builds a whirling minuet around its spongy synth tones; "Saturday Waits" starts as terse acoustic pop and ends in a swirl of farty bass and efflorescent harmonies.

The music's twinkling churn is a pleasure, but Svanängen's voice is the emphatic thread that holds it together and tends to commandeer your attention. It's high and oil-slick, frequently glowing into a neon falsetto. At once soft and garish, it describes a tremulous yet pitch-perfect weave through his glassy range. The wispy, trailing notes he breathes through the gentle synth-pop of "And I Won't Cause Anything at All" are impossibly winsome; ditto the low murmurs on the baggy, waltz-timed "I Am The Odd One". It hardly matters what Svanängen is saying or how he's saying it-- his voice sounds as lovely at rest in a single note as it does in motion through several. It lends itself to clichés about comfortable old blankets and the like. This is perhaps the music's downside-- the omnipresent comeliness of Svanängen's voice can start to bore into your skull after awhile. After all, even the comfiest blanket chafes if someone's giving you an Indian burn with it.