Nostalgic, positive and romantic, it pumps new warmth into Copenhagen’s cold and concrete punk movement.
‘No One Dances Quite Like My Brothers’ feels engorged with meaning, though it’s tricky to unpick. But not since The Cure’s ‘Faith’ has a group pulled off such a feat of heavy, heady melancholy.
Though crusted with rough textures, the music is as open and vulnerable as the Copenhagen punk bands are clenched and impervious, bending the same apocalyptic impulse in a serene, interior, even sensuous direction.
Where other releases in the Vår family tree went out of their way to offend and disgust, there is nothing quite so provocative at work here. This is a poetic record in the classical sense.
While Vår doesn’t reach the heights of Iceage at their best, those who are simultaneous fans of Iceage and, say, The Cure, will be pleasantly surprised by No One Dances Quite Like My Brothers’ veering towards depressed melody
At their best, Vår utilize the gloom and doom of their influences to craft dense yet catchy songs that are as brooding as they are danceable.
Though they never go as far as allowing their voices to occupy the same space, the contrast between Rahbek’s less practiced vocals and Rønnenfelt’s now familiar adolescent croon lend the already damaged pop another world-weary layer.
The combination of Lo-Fi, DIY punk and bass heavy electronica doesn't sound like a combination that should work and yet, somehow, VÅR manage to create an album that surpasses this expectation.
Vår is four young men passionate about their art. They've crafted an album that's endearing and inspiring, even if its genesis was the complete contrary.
The production and the fuzz in the recordings resemble someone drowning in a frozen lake beating the ice and screaming for help, when they finally make piece with it.
#81 | / | Crack Magazine |