Jens Lekman, Night Falls Over Kortedala

Although not drastically different from previous endeavors, some of Jens’ best tracks to date can be found on Night Falls Over Kortedala. From asthma inhalers to avocados and back again, Jens exemplifies his signature wit and slightly absurd lyrics of loves lost and found. Much like 2004’s When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog and 2005’s Oh You’re So Silent Jens, the young Swede is forlorn as usual, and Lisa remains to be his only friend.

Still, Jens is never down for too long. Give him a xylophone and a ukulele and he’s quick to rebound. Soon enough his heart shimmers and swells and he’s changing the subject to figs. Constantly on the verge of falling either in or out of love, Jens realizes that heartache will always find him. Even if he’s leaving on his own accord (“I Am Leaving You Because I Don’t Love You”), relationships are never easy. Jens still feels the need to apologize, lamenting, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t love you enough.” Nonetheless, his heart goes on beating, “beating like Ringo.” He may be easy to love, but loving is never simple when the object of your affection is a wanderer.

A champion of musical reappropriation, Jens possesses a seemingly endless supply of found sounds. More expansive than ever in his choice of samples, the record is a globetrotting expedition that somehow never feels too far from home. Thanks to Frida Hyvönen and El Perro Del Mar’s Sarah Assbring, we can rest assured that Jens isn’t too lonely either. Whether it’s an ode to his hairdresser (“Shirin”), or an awkward dinner table conversation (“A Postcard to Nina”), I can’t help but believe every word that comes out of his mouth. The explosive opener sets the tone as Jens declares, “I would never kiss anyone/Who doesn't burn me like the sun/And I remember every kiss like my first kiss.”

One could argue that there are more than a few standout tracks at work here, and while “The Opposite of Hallelujah” seems to be the obvious choice, the sunny “Into Eternity” is no exception. We all know what it’s like to be “prisoners of the moment,” and this song is the perfect embodiment of this very idea. As Jens croons over and over, “You in my arms . . .” I know I would gladly die with this song on repeat.

A Distraction, Revealing: Strawberry Jam

It's not my words that you should follow, it's your inside
Adjust your insides!

There is something inherently obsessive about music listening. Time and time again we come across records that we listen to over and over, and in many cases eventually kill, if only for a little while. We obsess over these albums because they are catchy, infectious, innovative, or just plain perfect for that given moment. Once in a while a record comes along that is more than awesome; there’s something about it that owns us, that demands repeated listens. There’s something about it that seems overly appropriate for that specific time. It becomes the soundtrack to now.

Such is the case with Animal Collective’s Strawberry Jam. Every single note belongs, could never exist in any other context except this one. The album keeps revealing itself listen upon listen; it’s like an endless game of hide and seek. It’s partly a matter of relating on a personal level to the music. In this sense it is a source of confirmation. In another sense the album serves as a revealing force. As the tracks unravel and acquire new meaning, they reinvent life and give new significance to each moment.

And from one moment to a next
Shifting in the plates of what you ingest

Music, by nature, is temporal; it depends on time both in its composition as well as its meaning. Just like Attali observed, “Time traverses music and music gives meaning to time.” Music is cumulative. A song can trigger a specific memory or feeling, as it stockpiles meaning with each repeated listen. After all, “To take on meaning, it requires an incompressible lapse of time, that of its own duration.” Without a listener, recorded music is merely an object. We define music in the same way that music comes to define us. Mutual affirmation. Still, there are certain sounds, feelings, and ideas embedded in the music that exist apart from us.

And I can't hold what's in my hand
Don't do any good to say this isn't what I planned
And little kids slide down on the steel park slides
Little kids can't play with things that've died

Despite the band’s apparent need for a sonic compass, there’s something about Strawberry Jam that grounds me in the present. It’s a perfect fit. As immediate as it is, the album still exudes a curious futuristic glow. Constantly on the verge of chaos, it hurtles and surges and replenishes and purges. It feels like you’re always inches away from falling off a cliff, then the music seizes you and tosses you high up into the air and pretends like it won’t be there to catch you on the way down but of course it always is. A reassuring sort of confusion. It’s okay to be confused, to not know what is going on. At least it IS going on. Sometimes life is a fucking rope ladder.

My tears quenched five feet along
And I can scream but cannot yawn
And people gonna come and people gonna cry
We cry "we hope it's worth the age we die!"

Countless elements are at work here, which although at first seem discordant or cluttered, with mounting momentum they melt into the sublime. This is the sound of movement. Sailboat, helicopter, sled, mule. Traveling through an aquatic labyrinth. I want to get as close to the sound’s source as possible, be it the gentle background gurgle of “#1” or Avey Tare’s guttural cries on “For Reverend Green.” This is easily one of the most life-affirming songs I’ve heard in a while. I raise my fist to the sky as Tare yelps, “Now I think it’s all right to feel inhuman / Now I think that’s all right yeah!” As a pair, “Cuckoo Cuckoo” and “Derek” prove to be an overwhelmingly powerful conclusion. Though neither artist nor listener can always be sure where this group is headed, they are definitely on their way.

Simply put, I would do whatever this album told me to do. I would murder a teddy bear if that were what it wanted. As much as I keep on living, this album keeps refusing to die. Life can be syrupy, but at least there’s a constant flow.


“Synchronicity rules chaos with an iron hand, and it is only the merciful defense of some kind of brain filter that keeps us from going mad seeing how it all fits together. When this brain defense wears thin, we see the mind’s boggling connectiveness of every event in time and space and reel from the nausea of unrelenting synchronicity.”

-Andrei Codrescu

Robot Rock

I would never issue a formal complaint, but sometimes there is just too much good music to see in New York. Lately I feel especially spoiled. Seeing live music, which although never truly a rare occurrence in my life, used to hold more significance. A concert was something special, even if it didn’t completely blow me away. My standards have since risen. Not to say that it takes more to impress me musically, but it takes more to genuinely affect me.

While listening to music is oftentimes a highly individualistic sort of activity, witnessing a live show fosters (or should at least encourage) a more communal feel. A concert is such a fleeting thing; a single performance can happen only once and can never be wholly recreated. This is what makes it real. This is what makes it exciting. This is partly what binds us as concertgoers. To be able to say “I was there too!” To be able to gush over that same song transition or that face-melting Malkmus solo. Or to be equally speechless as those other 12,000 people who crowded into that baseball diamond on a rainy August night for Daft Punk.

This was no ordinary concert. This was a return to the ritual nature of music. I was part of something larger than myself – something too big to ever fully comprehend. Yet at the time, it didn’t matter what was happening, I was reassured just to know that it was happening at all. My grip on reality was temporarily severed, something that doesn’t happen quite often enough.

Imagine being transported, to a place outside of yourself, to a place you never knew existed but always hoped did. It felt scary and safe at the same time. It felt like it might feel to die dreaming. Just two masked humans atop a burning pyramid of light doing this, whatever this was, to a crowd of thousands. Most of the time I didn’t even know how to respond to what was going on in front of me. Overly stimulated and slightly confused, I was left looking like a possessed fool with a maniacal grin plastered across the face. Peering deeper than usual into a friends’ eyes and recognizing that same look of horrified amazement, I knew there was no choice but to surrender. And even though it is times like these we feel the least in control, these are the moments when we experience that overwhelming sense of self, of living.