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Sondre Lerche is one of those extremely rare artists whose work is accessible by the multitudes without containing any of the nasty preservatives or aftertastes that much of what passes for pop music or has the determination to do so does. It breathes on your neck these sticky words, in close and swishing some of your hairs around, but you choose not to back away, not even the slightest bit repulsed by it being in your kitchen, your grill and your wheelhouse.
Lerche, with twinkles in his eyes and sparkly charm in his faint-to-spanning smile, is not a one size fits all sort of guy, though through the miracle of his likeability and the intelligent (not clichéd) wisdom he imparts with his words, he's stretchy and capable of being winsome all over there place, over expensive wine or cheap beer. He's got unlimited potential to appease the doctor, the girls, the grandparents, the record store snobs, the critics, the pets and all those other arms of the masses. He doesn't write to please everyone, but somehow what comes from his pen and his mouth does, or should.
The music the early 20-something Norwegian has made in his short career - one that covers four full-length records in six years -- feels as if it were out swimming by the glow of moonlight, breaking the water's calm surface with patient strokes. It feels like gorgeous and inviting lava that wouldn't hurt you, not even for the fun of a mild burn. His ability to reach into the hearts of so many disparate men and women, extracting very honest and original concerns and personal turmoils - both mild and major - from them should be regarded as his greatest gift. There is effortlessness in his lyrics and melodies that belie a songwriter three times his age. His effervescence is contagious and the subtle notion that he could be one of the great ones when all is said and done is believable.