The Concretes aren't just cool--they're Swedish. Like meatballs or Volvos or people who drink too much Aquavit and go running naked through the snow. Cool as a bright-white wall of sound, with organs, trumpets, harps, and blondes who worship the Supremes in all their evening-gloved glory. Fizzy as peppermint soda, shiny as Christmas decorations, chilly as an ice sculpture of Nico's vocal cords. Loose as only a 20-member octet can get, finally deciding to rehearse hard enough to produce their first "proper" recording, and coming up with a snow globe of an album that's sparkling, brilliant and only held back by gravity.