In a certain mood -- the one you drift into, say, while placidly taking in old episodes of The Brady Bunch -- Abba can have its charms. Four pleasant Swedes chiming away in phrase-book English, their faces round and blank as aspirin: lower your resistance to chirpy pop marches, and in no time your favorite song is Waterloo. Drop your prejudice against Continental kitsch, and who can say no to Fernando? Disarm your critical faculties, and Abba lays claim to the squishiest chambers of your heart, the parts susceptible to Dancing Queen.
Is that enough to explain the Abba revival, which...
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