King Midas

One night late in 20th century Mr G showed the way down to a dark Oslo cellar. The ceiling, floors and walls of the club were fuming from the excited vibes manufactured by women of all ages, as we stopped and stood and gasped amazed at the extraordinary happening. On a small corner stage performed a gang of whitely dressed boys the view of their theatrically still faces diffused by only a simple and absurd slide show. The sound and vision they made was from their very own world, disconnected to anything contemporary outside the cellar but opening a direct line to Pink Floyd before Barrett blew his mind, pre-success Kraftwerk, The Doors with Mr Mojo beneath 100 kilos, The Thin White Duke just about to lose it in Berlin, lysergic Beatles and Stones reaching for Heaven and Hell. And the little and the big girls understood, as they always have. A complete reverse mirroring then, of The Yardbirds going nuts as their daft audience stand washed in white light, completely still and unexcited until a battered wreck of a guitar tossed from the stage throws them into a frenzy, in the Antonioni masterpiece film 'Blow-up'. Nordic godlike boys playing white funk. It's happened before but never as sharp as this. Coolish, but soft. Far out indeed, but very straight to the point. Held back yet outright sexy. They have traveled long and far to give us this album. From being Norway's best kept musical secret they will simply have to pass that precious position on to some other gang. They attack us with a timeless masterpiece of a song collection, and they will conquer. It's Nico in space, Kierkegaard coming out, Brecht kicking out the jams, Che at Shea stadium, Martin Luther King with a fuzzbox or perhaps it's as simple as Tom Jones on acid. Either way you label this band, King Midas is the pride of Scandinavia. In the very near future you are likely to be snogging someone, intensely, to the sound of one of these songs. So if at first you don't get it, try again, it'll be energy well rewarded.