Frontier Psychiatrist

There has been a great deal written regarding the explosion of indie music from Sweden over the last five years, and understandably so; from The Knife to Peter Bjorn & John to, most recently, The Tallest Man on Earth, Swedish artists have increasingly become American critical darlings.  Indeed, to read much that has been written, you might be led to believe that the land of Carl Gustaf XVI just discovered the concept of sequencing pitched sounds during the 21st century.  Such a perspective sadly sells short the history of Swedish pop music, but also fails to recognize the fact that Swedish music trends have in fact mirrored our own for over 30 years.

The typical narrative of Swedish music goes thusly: “There was ABBA, they were quite popular with people like John McCain but not anyone you’d hang out with, then there was nothing for decades, then they were on our TV shows.”  The truth however, is much more complex: Swedish pop music has been omnipresent in our own musical landscape since the time of ABBA; indeed, it has been a reflection of the landscape.  When we have found our music scene blemished, therefore, we have chosen not to take notice of Sweden’s

While their aesthetic significance is questionable at best, ABBA’s historical significance cannot be denied.  They were more responsible than only other artist for the transition of glam-rock to disco in the mid-1970s.  It is understandable if after this transition, we all tried to pretend we didn’t know if bands were from Sweden.  Nonetheless, they didn’t leave us alone.  In the midst of the hair-metal craze of the mid-1980s, the Swedish band Europe made an indelible mark on our popular culture.  During the same time period, while Madonna and Wham! were popping up our radio waves, Swedish group Roxette was having an impact of its own.

It is understandable why we tried not to acknowledge Sweden during this period.  When our own music became a tad less cheesy, so did theirs, and we started paying attention again.  For example, in the mid-1990s, with an upwelling of literate female-driven pop occurring in America, Swedish darlings The Cardigans to rose to prominence; with the birth of the so-called “garage rock revivial” of the early 2000s, The Hives gained some measure of fame.  Since this time, and particularly in the last five years, we’ve continued to see Swedish music serve as model and inspiration for our own.  From the folk musing of Jose Gonzalez (reflected in those of Bon Iver), to the blissed-out electronic compositions of Air France (clear relatives of buzz-worthy Neon Indian), to the clever songs of Jens Lekman (the true heir to The Magnetic Fields), Swedish music continues to inform and be informed by our own.  Just because this phenomenon is à la mode, however, don’t be lead to believe that it is a recent development.

Some Swedish favorites from recent weeks/months/years:

Jens Lekman – Your Arms Around Me

jj – Ecstasy

The Tallest Man on Earth – Kids on the Run

At the time of his recent passing, Sparklehorse mastermind Mark Linkous (briefly memorialized in an earlier post) had completed work on a collaborative project with Danger Mouse and David Lynch called Dark Night of the Soul.  After a protracted legal battle with EMI records, the record is set for (now posthumous) release on July 13 in the US.  The record is meant to be accompanied by a 100-page book of photos taken by Lynch; sadly this book was limited to 5000 copies and has sold out in its initial run.  As for the record itself, it features guest appearances from a wide range of vocalists including Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips, The Shins’ James Mercer, Cardigan’s lead vocalist Nina Persson, Iggy Pop, Black Francis, and David Lynch himself singing the title track.  The entire album is available for live-streaming here; we’ve included FP’s favorite track from the record (featuring Julian Casablancas of The Strokes) below:

Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse – Little Girl (featuring Julian Casablancas)

Last weekend I found myself sitting in the back of a tony Brooklyn brunch spot.  As I awaited the arrival of my gruyere omelette (oh god, is this really what we’re like?), I heard a song in the background that was so recognizable to me I barely noticed it:

The song was “Meaningless” of the third disc of the Magnetic Fields’ 1999 magnum opus 69 Love Songs.  The record (or at least part three) was playing in its entirety on a small boom box in the back of the restaurant, sharing its painted smiles and plaintive frowns with staff and patrons alike.  It occurred to me then that I had heard this record played at numerous non-musical sites in both Manhattan and Brooklyn) and even while on location in The Classic City) over the past several months.  I began to wonder what exactly accounted for this record’s staying power.  It is unwieldy in size and length, received almost no radio airplay on its release, got little if any publicity in the mainstream press.  What has prevented it from falling into the Dustbin of History?  After all, as we learned today from the demise of the floppy disk and the arrival of the new Hole album, the 90s are dead.

I don’t mean to sell short the significance of 69 Love Songs.  If you were in college or just out in the late 90s, the album seemed to render the term “instant classic” logical.  Personally, I credit this record with altering my whole view on popular music, elucidating for me the importance of songwriting craft over musicianship.

But, of course, I heard this record when it came out in 1999. Many of the fine laborers playing this record in their boutiques today were ten years old at the time.  Somehow, they have been guided back to this record to the point where, despite minimal critical and no commercial success since the record’s release, a Magnetic Fields concert still merits a write-up in examiner.com, and groups of comic artists are illustrating the whole thing.

Typically such re-discovery occurs through the success of new bands that wear their influences on their sleeves.  It is challenging, however, to find bands today who are open disciples of the Fields.  Similar albums from the same time period can count numerous obvious pupils.  Neutral Milk Hotel, whose In The Aeroplane Over the Sea, was released in 1998, can be heard very clearly in anything by the Decemberists, Sufjan Stevens, or Joanna Newsom.  I See a Darkness, the 1999 release from Will Oldham’s Bonnie “Prince” Billy project, is at least partially if not directly responsible for the work of Bon Iver and FP-favorite The Tallest Man on Earth (more later this week).  But, while the love of wordplay and the affinity for kitsch heard on 69 Love Songs are certainly present in today’s music, direct descendants are hard to establish.

I suppose that people have returned to this record, then, because of what I mentioned earlier: it is the rare record in which the songwriting and lyricism are perfect while the musicianship seems trivial.  (this is of course not the case; the simple-sounding musicianship is one the album’s many layers of artifice).  There is a rather permanent charm to a record which seems to be made by laying down a simple beat on a Casio and singing your clever words over the top; its lack of direct influence likely relates to the fact that Stephen Merritt’s words are a little more clever than those of everyone else.  It’s encouraging then that still today songs can cross generations not because of press or sales or imitation, but simply because they are catchy, because they are memorable, because they are fun. 

Some of our favorite selections from the album below:

The Magnetic Fields – The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side

The Magnetic Fields – The Book of Love

The Magnetic Fields – Crazy For You (But Not That Crazy)

The Magnetic Fields – The Night You Can’t Remember