Swedish

Love Is Not Pop

admin — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 09:04:00 +0000

While listening to the recently released album from Swedish pop artist El Perro del Mar (Sarah Assbring), I quickly realized I was being pulled into a cathartic experience evoked by Assbring's ethereal vocals and repetitive, melancholic lyrics. Starting with the track “Gotta Get Smart” and ending with “A Better Love,” the songs hold true to the healing process of a breakup, especially the desperate hold of a co-dependent first love.

As the title provokes, Love Is Not Pop is not cute; it is pain, loneliness, desperation, heartbreak, losing yourself, finding yourself, and after having wept, hope. For the artist, the album is about “the dream of a pure love in a dirty world.” Unlike many other similar artists with equally melancholic lyrics, Assbring sings her hurt, exposing a vulnerability to her listeners that is at times comforting and uncomfortable because of the intimacy it offers—and, perhaps unknowingly, requests.

“Gotta Get Smart” is undeniably the most important song on the album. It’s about the moment in time when you finally realize you’re done. This decided confidence comes through the somber, repetitive lyrics: “We’ve been together for so long. Don’t wanna break you’re heart. I’m done, I’m done thinking it over...I gotta get smart.”

“Change of Heart” and “L Is For Love” are both dominated by a sense of heaviness: dark chords, ethereal vocals, deep sighs, and a bitter tone. In the first, it is unclear whether the repeated lyrics “he will never stop” is about abuse or simply incompatibility, but the song is about realizing you cannot change the person you love, even though you may have “been dreaming for so long.” The latter is encompassed by feeling defeated “when the hope is gone." The exhausting plea, “Let Me In,” is driven by an unpleasant beat and equally anxious lyrics: “Baby open up the door. I don’t make me have to beg for love. I want to be your fool, if that’s all I’m gonna be.”

“It Is Something (To Have Wept)” is inspired by a G. K. Chesterton poem titled “The Great Minimum,” and at this point, the desperation that dominated the last few tracks is replaced with acceptance and appreciation for the lessons learned. “Better Love” marks the end of the emotional journey and the desire to be content and optimistic “til better love comes.” It is also a conclusion: “This isn’t over til I say when. When. When.” It’s done.

El Perro del Mar is currently touring North America.

Written by: Abigail Chance, November 21st 2009

Survival Strategies in a Modern World

admin — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 09:12:00 +0000

By Liechtenstein

Slumberland Records

There are many things to like about the county of Liechtenstein: its tax haven status, its unusually small size, its ski slopes, and its firm resolve to stay out of the European Union. I happen to love the EU in principle, but have an equal amount of respect for wealthy countries that opt to steer clear of large political unions. Did you know that the EU anthem is “Ode to Joy?” Would Beethoven approve?

To me, the ideals of a tiny nation like Liechtenstein could easily be represented in a rock band. Landlocked and fiercely independent, it would be easy to like the namesake even more than the band. Thing is, Liechtenstein the band makes lovely Swedish indie pop that puts the two name sharers in tough competition. Even the album title, Survival Strategies in a Modern World, seems to pay homage to the idea of existing as an autonomous entity, surrounded by a collectively organized body. I hear individuality is the new conformity.

Naemi, Renée, and Elin have been playing together for several years, touring the Nordic countries and finally releasing their first LP this year. With an impressively feminist track record on their singles, the gals previously carved an important space by calling out gossip, Barbie dolls, skinny models, and ten-year-old girls who diet—and more importantly, the culture that supports them. On their full length release, the Swedes sing about everything from shiny shoes to reputations. Their melodies are catchy without being weighed down by their subject matter. You don’t have to care what they’re saying, but you can also find full lyrics online if their accents confuse your ears. I think they’re charming, but then, I live a short one-hour flight from their home base in Göteborg. My whole life has become everyone else’s English as a second (or third) language.

I have been told that when crossing the Liechtenstein border, your passport will not be stamped. While I have yet to test this theory, a concert ticket stub seems a better souvenir.

Written by: Brittany Shoot, August 6th 2009

Gold Dust on His Shirt: The True Story of an Immigrant Mining Family

admin — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 17:32:00 +0000

By Irene Howard

Between The Lines

When you think about migrant memoirs of North America, stories of moving north from Latin America often come to mind more than those detailing moves east and west. Flipping around that common assumption, Gold Dust on His Shirt tells the story of Irene Howard’s Swedish-Norwegian immigrant family’s tumultuous life in Canada at the turn of the twentieth century.

After the death of her first husband in Norway, Howard’s mother Ingeborg immigrated to Canada. She left her young daughter Inga behind with the child’s grandparents, promising to send for Inga as soon as she was settled. Instead, once she arrived in Prince Rupert (in current day British Colombia), she met and married a Swede, Nils Alfred in 1913. Only seven years after Norway had gained its independence from Sweden, the couple felt—and was—thousands of miles from the political controversies of their homeland. Six months later, Ingeborg gave birth to their first son, Swedish-Norwegian-Canadian Arthur Ingemar. Over the years, Ingeborg and Alfred had several more children—Verner Erik, Nels Edwin, Irene—and were uprooted from their home several times. Alfred’s job working on the railroad demanded that the family relocate as work became available. As Alfred became involved with the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) and began mobilizing other immigrant workers, his job prospects were often limited due to his radical organizing.

Reading about language barriers, death by tuberculosis or mine collapse, police raids, and workers’ struggles against mining companies is a sobering experience. Living a reverse tale of sorts—an American in Denmark, mostly unable to speak Danish—I have a lot of empathy for the characters in this story. I also suspect that my own Norwegian background and my adopted Danish family made this a more interesting tale for me. I didn’t mind reading about characters named Sigurd Ullstreng, Olav Trygvasson, and Elling Erikssen Aarvig. For me, it was a bit comforting and homey—or “hygge,” as we say in Danish.

Howard’s history is fascinating, though her presentation is a bit dry. At times, the book reads like a genealogy scrapbook instead of a memoir, listing people and events in a factual if uninspiring way. For history buffs, this is no doubt enjoyable. I will admit to struggling at times to wade through the details of a time and place with which I have no real familiarity. Yet Howard’s story is valuable and often untold, and her objective storytelling—in which she often removes herself entirely from the narrative, even though she lived through the same events—is a refreshing departure from the self-centered account most memoirs provide. I suspect I will revisit this book for years to come, perhaps as my roots deepen and spread among the Nordic states and North America.

Howard was born in 1922 amidst her father’s career change from mining to fishing. That she has survived the last eighty-seven years—three less than my own still-living Norwegian grandmother—with her story intact, now fully documented and published, is no small feat. In Norwegian, we say, “gratulerer”—congratulations.

Written by: Brittany Shoot, July 11th 2009

Loney Dear (4/5/2009)

admin — Thu, 14 May 2009 00:09:00 +0000

Lille Vega

Copenhagen, Denmark

It is so ridiculously obvious why the kids are flipping out about this impressively under-the-radar Nordic crooner. It doesn’t matter if gnat-attention-span hipsters can’t name his influences, the history that brought us to now. It doesn’t matter if they forget the album tomorrow (though it’s clearly their loss). What does matter is when amazing music comes forth. What matters is keeping it in our hearts once the fair-weather fans have moved onto the next big college radio hit.

When I was coming up, Polyvinyl was a key player among emo purveyors. These days, the nice Illinois-based label folk have expanded to include distant cousins of the much-co-opted genre. Loney Dear, alternately known as Swedish multi-instrumental Emil Svanängen, plays a strange mix of heartfelt crooning and synth. On Dear John, his second major U.S. release, following Sub Pop-released 2007 Loney, Noir, Loney Dear is in top recorded form.

In person, Loney Dear is a more handsome, thinner, sufficiently Aryan Perez Hilton, thankfully also missing the boorish manners and cum jokes. Lille Vega—conjoined twin of the larger Vega next door—is not a hidden club with no sign, for in a city the size of Copenhagen, that doesn’t usually work for very long when everyone who is anyone knows everyone else. Despite being along one of the city’s main drags, Vega brings some of the best shows in town. I flashed my passport and was in the door, camera tucked in back pocket of my partner’s not-so-skinny jeans. My partner and I did not wear the requisite faux Keffiyehs and high tops, but thankfully my man was on hand to translate the bands’ Swedish mumblings between songs.

Opener Marching Band—whose MySpace made me a believer before they took the stage—stole the show as duo Erik Sunbring and Jacob Lind had turned quintet with a backing band for the affair. Bearing no resemblance to kids in matching uniforms who like to feel each other up at sleep away camp, the two did make a visually unlikely pair. Erik, in a sports jacket and tight pants, bounced to his own music on one side of the stage. With shoulder-length hair grazing the top of his wolf-emblazoned brown sweatshirt, Jacob did his own whistling while vigorously tapping various sound machines.

As they packed up after an incredibly short set, the room filled up in anticipation of the headliner. There are two ways this can go, I thought, for it is what I always think. The band will either mimic their own album with eerie precision, or the man about to take the stage will in no way resemble the crooner on the CD. The latter isn’t generally a problem for me, since why show up to hear the same tracks you have at home? Live versions are passed via bootleg for a reason. And yet, if it were ever possible to mangle a live performance of one of the year’s most celebrated releases, I believe it happened before my eyes.

Loney Dear, much as I hate to admit it, was a disjointed, confusing mess. Svanängen staggered onto the stage as the volume was cranked so high that even the most seasoned concert-goer began stuffing plugs into their ears. Perhaps I should not blame Svanängen as much as the folks in the sound booth. Has your face ever vibrated, independent of your body, from being too close to an amp? Have you ever felt as though your teeth and brain might shake loose and end up lying next to the empty Tuborg bottles at your feet? When an acoustic song began, I sat down on a bench to try to calm my nerves, frazzled by the shift in sound, praying this coherence was not temporary. But after one verse, the bass and pounding drums rejoined, and any semblance of listenable music was gone. Unless you’re following the Dead in a van, one should never feel as though being high for a concert would make it a better experience. If I smoked, I’ve have sought refuge in the lobby’s eight-dollar-a-pack machine.

It didn’t help that the only female among the ten-plus men that took the stage all evening was relegated to playing a tambourine and, occasionally, hitting a cymbal. “They can’t even give her a full drum set? All she can do is play the theme from Shaft.” To make things worse for our lone lady musician, by song two, the crazed Loney Dear front man had stolen her tambourine and would pound on her keyboard from his upside-down vantage point while she was forced to merely stand there and watch. I get that the dude is a “multi-instrumentalist,” but could he try to focus instead of meandering around, stealing the other kids’ toys? Straining to hear vocals behind the deafening bass, I could barely make out the album’s best track, “Airport Surroundings.” My head was starting to hurt. Badly.

I will admit that my partner and I exchanged nods before exiting the building, long before anyone else had considered doing the same. Danes are a reserved bunch, and I saw no disgruntled stares as many stayed to hear the band finish. I wondered how they really felt as I breathed in the cool spring air, away from the shaky mania of the club. My headache started to lift; safely on the streets, not a moment too soon.

Written by: Brittany Shoot, May 13th 2009

Layourbattleaxedown

admin — Thu, 14 Dec 2006 23:14:00 +0000

By The Concretes

Astralwerks

The Concretes are Swedish and adorable. They also have a band name that is part cool ("the" is so money) and part tough cookie (you get it...). Which has nothing to do with the music, really, but come on; you and I have both picked up CDs because of a cutesy band name or cool cover art. Most of the time our whirlwind expenditures result in creepy death metal rock operas or grandma music, which then result in another set of beer coasters. The Concretes, though, deliver every time, even when they're releasing a b-side album to get some stateside love. And a collection of b-sides is exactly what the space bar challenged Layourbattleaxedown seems to be. Now children, just because you liked that one song that was in that Target commercial that one time, don't go branding these Swedees (like sweeties... but you know, Swedish) your new favorite band. I mean, you can, but know what you're getting yourself into. The Concretes rely on languid lyrics, gauzy rhythms and the occasional wail of church organs to get the party started. If anything, Belle and Sebastian better watch their backs. For those who eat, sleep and shit rock and roll, you will cry if exposed to this CD, and not because you were taken to another level or some such junk. If it's just not your thing, it's cool; we understand. It's my thing though, and any member of the band can contact me on my tin can telephone.

Written by: Nicole Sonsini, December 14th 2006