Artist: I’m From Barcelona
Album: Let Me Introduce My Friends
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LaLaLaLa –“We’re From Barcelona”
I’ve come to the conclusion that Peter Pan didn’t actually take the Darling siblings to Neverland, the place where children never grow up. I’m now almost certain that he and Tinkerbell kidnapped them to Sweden, the land of dark winters and where overt happiness is the only way to stay sane. It is also the home to all twenty-nine members of I’m From Barcelona, whose debut album Let Me Introduce My Friends acts as a postcard jam-packed with the most sincere songs of childhood happiness I’ve ever heard.
Like Elvis Costello welcoming you to his working week on My Aim Is True or Clap Your Hands Say Yeah screaming for you to do what their name entails as you enter their twisted carnival of drunken dreams, the best albums open with a track that helps to introduce its listeners to the secret world of the artist. Though it has absolutely no resemblance to either of those aforementioned records, Let Me Introduce My Friends’ opening song, “Oversleeping,” quietly fades in as the listener wakes to Swedish chatter coming from the next room, and then to strangely pleasant alarm ringing. You overslept, as singer Emanuel Lundgren explains, but reassures that it doesn’t matter, because today is going to be the best freakin day of your entire life. Following the trail of playful xylophone notes Lundgren opens a door and literally introduces you to all of his friends. They’re all there waiting for you to go outside and run around the streets, throwing bouncy balls everywhere and scurrying to catch them. You lose some but you don’t care, cause in the world of I’m From Barcelona, there are so many awesome things to do, losing your twee little balls is the last thing on your mind.
With songs like “Collection of Stamps” (I’ve got one from one from Spain/and two from Japan/ I’ve got a couple from Israel/and Azerbaijan) and “Treehouse” (I have built a tree house/I have built a tree house/ Nobody can see us/ Cause It’s a you and me house), the horde of musicians revert to their six year old selves in search of the naïve security they once knew. The language barrier, I suppose, helps in this endeavor, making each song’s crowd-pleasing, sing along chorus sound as though the band hijacked Mr. Roger’s trolley in between our reality and the Land of Make Believe.
With their exorbitant member count, wide array of instruments and affinity for happiness, the closest comparison IFB has to any other act would be to the Polyphonic Spree. IFB, though, takes on a poppier, minimalist approach (as minimal as you can be with a synths, horns, and glockenspiels) as apposed to the mega-musical theater orchestration and creepy cult undertone of the Spree.
This is a great album, whether you’re in a bad mood, need something to kick-start your day, or to just play in the background while packing your bags for Sweden.
-Published in the Rutgers Review 2/27/2007
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