Pitchfork

First things first: No, they're not, but you have to admit that the trochaic bounce of "Barcelona" rolls off the tongue more sweetly than "Jönköping," and rolling sweetly is this Swedish pansy-pop ensemble's bread-and-Kaviar-fish-paste. Like Barthelme's Paraguay, theirs is not the Barcelona that exists on maps. In this Barcelona, sun-kissed guitars and punchy horns double the melodic potency of fresh-faced "tra-la-la"s, and a song needs no more occasion than its possibility: "I'm gonna sing this song with all of my friends/ And we're I'm From Barcelona." In this Barcelona, the meta-conceit comes off less pomo than just honest, couched in such a sumptuous lilt and fueled by mutual adoration. In this Barcelona, cute girls euphorically harmonize with relatively heinous boys in kitschy cardigans and balding mullets, while just off camera, someone with a horrible mustache is saying "watch the birdie." (No, really-- peep the video.)