With a clean sound that swings toward the radio side of shiny and a bio that seems stage-managed into a harmless kind of indie press perfection, Razika don’t scream SERIOUS. So they whisper it instead.
“Four teenage Bergensers (who happen to be girls) defang The Specials” is the short version; the long version freebases the unstable dub structures of their musical grandparents into a polished, rocksteady fizz that frames a steady stream of three-minute pop songs. The Specials went looking for a groove and chased it out of town; Razika’s well-rehearsed gestures of desire sparkle and fade. It’s the difference between sand and diamonds.
Listening to Program 91 is like rustling blindly in a grab bag of silver linings and sunny days. Barring the contractually obliged slow jam, the dismally formulaic “Walk In The Park,” the album’s an absolute hook-fest: earworm porn. Each three-minute pop nugget is consumed in a scramble for the magic hook, a high-stakes approach that encourages an active form of listener discrimination. In that respect, Marie, Marie, Maria, and Embla are the latest in a long line of bands to worship at the church of Big Star, forming part of a long and fretful lineage that takes in the likes of The Replacements, whose caprice they lack, and R.E.M., whose diffuse sense of almost-abandoned hope they smear over a canvas of taut skank — drummer Embla Karidotter excels throughout — and chiming, skinny guitar that summons the ghost of Viv Albertine via an alchemical channeling of Roddy Radiation and Alessandro Alessandroni, Ennio Morricone’s whistler/guitarist.
If these are scratchy surfaces, they come pre-scratched: “Let me share my youth tonight with you,” doo-doo-doos curtain-raiser “Youth.” But the album’s most glaring weakness may be a failure to share anything specific. “Nytt ba Nytt” is industry-standard suburban ennui drenched in adolescent philosophy; “Taste My Dreams” defrosts a cautious heart in a comedy of risqué clichés and cutesy accents. It’s not what Razika say that’s arresting, but literally how they say it; twee trobairitz Marie Admam’s vocals, inquisitive and vulnerable in either Norwegian or English, pack sunburnt heartache with a citrus punch. Best to ignore meaning altogether and focus instead on its fraught and delicate weft. A constant reminder of earnest intentions within the barbecue boogie, Admam’s voice represents both a moment of equilibrium in a competition of forces, a path between cynicism and escapism, and a split within the songs themselves.
If only there were a rawness to match her soul. Too often, Program 91 is a controlled explosion, hemmed in by a fangirlish conservatism. When it all clicks — as it does with “Above All” and a handful of other tracks — this is spiky twee pop in a black-and-white cardigan of glory. In the context of an album that barely passes the half-hour mark, such fleeting moments of triumph feel redemptive; like Admam’s voice, they exceed limitations with a sly charisma.
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