read a study a few years back that found Scandinavians to have, on average, the largest testicles in the word. Since people with big balls founded rock ‘n roll I thought it logical to assume that Scandinavia would maintain a really rocking ethos. But there’s a problem with this line of reasoning: ABBA. Despite this anomalous cultural-mutation, I still thought I might be on to something. I put my Nobel hopes in Swedish quintet Mando Diao; they seemed to hold the empirical evidence I needed. Then they released their sophomore LP. (Note: measurements were never actually taken by me).

Barely in their twenties, Mando Diao found the perfect expressive outlet for their endowment in old-school rock’s roll. They robbed American R&B from the Kinks and Stones, added a smidge more romanticism, got themselves some Mod haircuts and started recording.

Bring ‘Em In, their debut full-length, re-authenticates that low center-of-gravity swagger that made rock so rockin’ in the first place. The release gained them a good deal of critical stroking but after the buzz petered out, the question remained: did they reserve anything for the follow-up?

Before Hurricane Bar arrived on my doorstep, I was alerted to a few troubling facts. First, I read that one of the band’s chief songwriters, Bjorn Dixgard, responsible for some of Bring ‘Em In’s best moments, had writers block and was unable to come up with much for the album.

Even more disturbingly, I learned that the band committed to a totally un-rocking temperance while recording, refraining from girls and partying; which is a leading cause of testicular apathy. Finally, the Swedes choose to trade their basement and self-reliance for a proper studio and All That You Can’t Leave Behind producer Richard Rainy.

The fact that writer’s block is even an issue, says to me this record, if it’s going to carry on in the style of its predecessor, is coming from the wrong place—unless writer’s block is a polite way of saying: “Dixgard sustained severe wracking trauma.” The studio/producer thing, well, that can go either way, so I reserved my judgment.

After a handful of spins, however, I was plagued with an invisible barrier to enjoying Hurricane Bar. I couldn’t put my finger on why I was unable to stay with it—why my attention goes from diggin’ the first four or five tracks, drifts away for a while, then comes back to the music as a source of annoyance. Most of the core elements of Bring ‘Em In are here: anthemic choruses, old-time four-on-the-floor back beats, ruffian guitars, and sharp hooks, so something else must be lacking.

At first I thought it might be a problem with sequencing so I tried playing the record out of order. Same thing. Then it dawned on me: Hurricane Bar is totally contrived: too much “That Thing You Do” and not enough shot-from-below-the-hip bacchanalia to keep the fire stoked.

A masterful artifice it is, and certain to fool those unaffected by the salacious nature of rock, but this release just doesn’t merit its paean to the art of the loins. Its edges are too sculpted, its spontaneity far too calculated: “Gustaf, I think it might be really great if you scream the last word of ‘Clean Town’s first chorus, ya.”

Taken out of the context of the rest of the record, tracks like “Got Knows,” “You Can’t Steal My Love,” and “Next To Be Lowered” are infectious enough to cause insomnia. But as a whole, this album lacks the hormonal spikes of its predecessor and fails to maintain engagement. Maybe the band should have a few oysters, spend some time in the sauna and head back down to the basement (party in tow). Big balls aren’t just about geography and biology. Just ask PJ Harvey.