Shout Out Louds

On record, Stockholm's Shout Out Louds are something of a subtle pleasure. Purveyors of an accomplished brand of dreamy, lovelorn guitar-pop, their recorded work nonetheless has something of a tendency to slip from our consciousness. It is usurped by those with the air of being able to hold their own in a fight, more willing to push their music upon us using brute force.

Their 'but why don't you like me anymore?' demeanour can, on record, seem almost forlorn, occasionally running the risk of becoming somewhat forgettable. Tonight, though, they are positively defiant in their tales of love's labours lost. From the second that they take to the stage in Madrid's Moby Dick Club, the room becomes charged with an electric energy which proves that, in spite of outward schmindie appearances, here is a band that refuse to be ignored.

They open with Our Ill Wills's 'South America', far from the strongest track on an album which, in itself, fails to stand out enormously, despite some moments of absolute genius. Nonetheless, as their rhythm section abandons the back-seat that it takes on record, we begin to get the impression that its recorded version belies the power of which it's truly capable. It crashes to the fore, revealing played-down layers of Talking Heads-ish drums and infectious, even funky basslines. The guitars, too, take on an infinitely more angular and, in all honesty, altogether more interesting role, sounding almost Smiths-y.

This is true of tonight's set in its entirety, as the benchmark that they set here is maintained throughout the evening. Each intricate element and influence which colours their work is individually exposed and emphasised. Bebban Stenborg's beautiful, honey-coated vocal, for example, is used sparsely in a set which largely steers clear of the band's slower numbers, in keeping with the jubilant tone adopted from the outset. Nonetheless, when it is used, it is to breathtaking effect, as on the superb 'Hard Rain', whose lush boy-girl vocal volley is tonight nothing short of outstanding.

It is telling, too, that it is only when the band dip into tracks from 2005's Howl Howl Gaff Gaff that we are suddenly reminded just what a solid début it was. 'Very Loud', in particular, stands out, descending into a life-affirming cacophony that positively dares you not to flail your limbs.

They play with a seemingly boundless energy, and look for all the world like they're loving every second of their heartbreak. There is not a hint of the morose nor, indeed, of the forgettable here. Xylophones! Accordions! Moog! Sure, it's twee, but it ain't half enjoyable.

We are left dancing like our lives depended on it, with the appealing sensation of having reclaimed for the twee-pop community, and for tonight only, something of the indie disco from the neon claws of nu-rave.