Back in my teen years during the mid-1970s, my friends and I had many things in common. The pursuit of girls that wouldn’t go out with us. Either trash-talking or singing the praises of various teachers at our high school. Many of us were new Christians and commiserated with each other over the dearth of music to which we could relate containing lyrics reflecting our newfound faith. Speaking of music, two other common threads wove through our youthful lives. We were quite certain that many decades later, should the Lord tarry in His Second Coming and we would go the way of all flesh, our tombstones would each bear the inscription DISCO STILL SUCKS. Also, at the risk of sounding somewhat blasphemous, we agreed that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were not actually named War, Pestilence, Famine, and Death. Rather, they were Agnetha, Björn, Benny, and Anni-Frid. In other words, ABBA.

To be a teenage boy in the 1970s and not immediately relegated to suspicious sideways stares by pretty much every other boy in school meant you had to – HAD to – hate ABBA with a passion. The schlocky lyrics. The polyester, sequined-smothered outfits. The ridiculously overproduced songs. The annoying earworm-ish melodies that would get stuck in your head and remain there until you were standing in the middle of the school grounds during lunchtime screaming for an exorcist, or at the very least someone with a portable eight-track player blasting out Led Zeppelin. You might have secretly found Agnetha and/or Anti-Frid suitable material for private fantasies never to be discussed with even the closest of friends. But that was it. Given a choice between listening to ABBA or suffering a massive acne breakout five minutes before asking your secret crush to the prom, you’d take the Clearasil curse every time.

Fast forward forty-five (ouch) years. We who remain are now in our sixties, hopefully happily centered in this early autumn of our lives. We still dust off our albums and CDs, or tune in to our classic rock stations, occasionally stopping to wonder at exactly which point grunge became part of the classic rock family. Our music tastes may have broadened over the decades, perhaps even mellowed a bit. But we’re still rock‘n’rollers to the core, right? Nothing can change that, right?

And then this happens.

Yes, after forty years and two divorces, ABBA is back with a new album. Decidedly older, yes. And yet, the tunes are still there.

Given the ongoing repercussions of COVID and the minor detail that the members of ABBA range in age from 71 to 76, touring in a conventional manner understandably lacks appeal. What to do? How about build your own arena in London and put on a set of shows with avatars subbing for the foursome, backed by a live band? Yup, that is exactly what ABBA is going to do. The band has released a photo of itself wearing the outfits it used during filming for the show.

Quite the fashion statement.

So, gentle readers, that which was unthinkable is now not only thinkable but reality. ABBA has returned. Even more unthinkable, I kind of like the new song. And, just as it was in the 1970s, to the surprise of many all of this remains unaccompanied by the aforementioned Four Horsemen.