Twenty years into their tenure, The Plastic Pals have returned with “Keep it Burning”, a record that feels less like a studio product and more like finding a pristine, forgotten leather jacket in a thrift store scuffed, smelling faintly of clove cigarettes, and fitting perfectly. Hailing from Stockholm, this group has managed a strange bit of sonic teleportation. They are Swedish, yes, but the air displacing through their amplifiers carries the grimy, humid oxygen of 1970s New York City.
The alchemy between Håkan “Hawk” Soold and Anders Sahlin on guitars is the engine room here. It’s not just about strumming; it is a geometrical conversation. On the opening cut, “Saturday Night and Sunday Morning,” their interplay reminds me of two windshield wipers out of sync during a torrential downpour jagged, frantic, yet effectively clearing the view. Olov Öqvist’s drums and Bengt Alm’s bass lock in a groove that feels deeply caffeinated, anchoring that twin-guitar attack that fans of Television will find deliciously familiar.
But to say they are merely retro would be lazy. There is a peculiar, wonderful mood in “The Blue Train” that stopped me cold. It captures the specific ache of being an apprentice watching a master at work that desire to steal the magic. It felt like watching dust motes dancing in a sunbeam in an old library; reverent, dusty, and strangely alive. Conversely, “Lost in Translation” pivots hard into jagged Post-Punk. It vibrates with the tension of a conversation where no one is listening, a jittery dance floor track for the socially anxious.
The title track, “Keep it Burning”, serves as the spiritual spine. It’s a wide-open road trip anthem for those who have realized the map they bought at the gas station is outdated but refuse to turn the car around. It captures resilience not as a grand battle, but as the quiet stubbornness of keeping a pilot light on during a draft.
As the album winds down to the acoustic gravity of “Love’s Not the Answer,” you realize the sardonic wit is a shield for genuine vulnerability. It leaves you with a lingering, metallic taste of melancholy, but also the warmth of survival. Are The Plastic Pals guarding the flame, or are they the fire itself?
