Every now and then I go back to this one. Träden is a nickname for Träd Gräs och Stenar. Formed in 1969, and with their 1970 self-titled debut a landmark in early heavy prog/psych rock, Swedish or otherwise, the band led by more-or-less-founding guitarist/vocalist Jakob Sjöholm donned their abbreviated moniker to match the title of 2018’s Träden (review here), but it’s not the first time they’ve switched it up in that regard. Comprising eight tracks that run an immersive, hypnotic 70 minutes beginning with the longest of the bunch (immediate points) in “När lingonen mognar (Lingonberries Forever)” at 11:51, the album is a varied sprawl to be sure, but the material is tied together through the ultra-organic presentation and open-feeling creativity.

Parts are pretty clearly improvised, whether it’s the guitar solo in “När lingonen mognar (Lingonberries Forever)” or the outset of the lightly shuffling “Kung Karlsson” (7:55) that follows and builds into a noodly wash by its midsection, held together by the rhythm section as Sjöholm and guitarist/organist Reine Fiske (also Dungen) explore a decidedly earthy psychedelia, growing noisier at the finish before “Tamburan” (11:19) begins its pastoralist procession, twists of original-era psych on guitar gracefully distorted over the steady basswork of Sigge Krantz and fluid drumming from Nisse Törnqvist, who shares those duties with Hanna Östergren (also Hills) with the latter playing on most of the tracks and contributing vocals somewhere, somehow. The first instrumental, “Tamburan” is the point of departure for your consciousness; an unfolding fuzzscape of willful meander, almost meditative but leant vibrance through the live feel of the recording.

By this point, Träden are already embroiled in the back and forth between shorter and longer pieces, and that contrast is especially stark as “Å nej (Oh No)” starts out with running water giving over to shaker percussion and a sweetly casual folkish sensibility emphasized by the blend of acoustic strum and lockstep fuzz, shaker percussion, multiple vocalists joining for the simple-sounds-work-best chorus, which is one of few throughout Träden, and feels purposefully included near the center of the record. I don’t speak Swedish, but there’s some comfort in the procession of “Å nej” nonetheless, the humble melody and fun swell of hurdy gurdy or something like it in the midsection; it could even be guitar. If you’re a drinker, it might be what sways you to sleep with a warning of the hangover to follow, still distant enough not to be real in the tragic sense of the word.

“OTO” starts out with foreboding strums of distorted guitar and a quiet-ish tom rhythm from Östergren, with a shimmer of lead guitar cutting through tentatively at first and then markedly less so. They’re moving by the time they’re three and a half minutes into the total nine, but it’s more of a look-back-and-wonder-how-you-got-there than an outwardly purposeful build, and like much of the record that surrounds, it’s content to make its own kind of sense. The guitar tone changes shortly before they hit seven minutes and “OTO” the dreamier early going is somewhat solidified, relatively speaking, but stays mellow and hypnotic even as the guitar threatens howls toward the finish, from which “Hoppas du förstår (Hope You Understand)” picks up with another redirect, putting acoustic guitar at the center with arriving soon after.

What might be the bowed Indian instrument esraj features in the mix (handled by Fiske if that’s it) and adds ethereal lift to the otherwise humble procession. “Hoppas du förstår (Hope You Understand)” is of a kind with “Å nej” in runtime and the fact that it has vocals — in layers, even — but the voice, mood and sentiment conveyed by the music are different, and the later cut is backed by the instrumental “Hymn.” If it was American I would call “Hymn” a ramble — note to self: do Swedes ramble? — but its seven minutes feel contemplative enough to earn the name and after touching ground in the song prior, Träden depart once more into fuzz and wispy psych for the closer “Det finns blått (There is Blue),” which is true enough whether you’re talking about the sky, water, or misery. The finale is the third of the total eight songs to top 10 minutes, and if it was only the fuzz-washed lead and drums for the duration, it would still be a win, but the off-the-cuff-feeling vocals — which may have started as improv, but are doubled in parts — and sax and who knows what else are certainly welcome along for the ride.

And like much of the album that precedes, “Det finns blått (There is Blue)” is a ride, whether or not you realize it’s moving. Thick in vibe and the emergent fuzz alike, with some bordering-on-shouts later, it’s a mind-psych movement outward that’s not entirely unstructured or without form, but that carries a feeling of liquidity just the same, oozing out as it makes its way in its own time to the twisting solo noise that begins the second half, the drums growing accordingly more fervent in crash. By the seven-minute mark, it drops to standalone guitar strum, but the urgency that rose up hasn’t completely dissipated either, whatever solace is offered through the calming strum and peppered notes of epilogue guitar. That last couple minutes, which really could be a whole other song if the jam had gone that way, might be out of place with the preceding piece, but if anything, they only underscore the point of how little that matters in the first place if it doesn’t jolt the listener out of the experience, and by the last three minutes of Träden, the band would have to come to your house and stomp on your foot to snap you out of the spell they’ve just spent the last hour-plus casting. Call it a bonus on an existential level.

My only motivation for closing the week with Träden is to say I hope at some point Sjöholm and company do another album. Whether it sounds like this or wanders off elsewhere musically, whatever. I’ll take it. This record requires a certain kind of patience — don’t go in with expectations beyond hearing sound — but there’s so much life in the songs if you’re willing to meet them on their level. I have no idea if or when Träd Gräs och Stenar might return or in what form, but the world they make here begs further exploration. It’s among the CDs I least regret buying in the last decade.

As always, I hope you enjoy. Thanks for reading.

—

We’re in Budapest — me, The Patient Mrs., The Pecan, and the dog Tilly. In the part of the city called Astoria, which I’ve just been calling Queens, because, well, New York. It’s Friday. We got here Wednesday after two days in Zagreb, Croatia, following my excursion to Bear Stone Festival in the Croatian countryside last weekend. That seems longer ago.

My wife, kid and dog had a place in Zagreb that was apparently alright, but when I came back from the festival — met them at the airport as though I was just flying in from another world; kind of true minus the flying part — we and our five weeks’ worth of kidn-and-dog-inclusive luggage moved to a spot in the Old City, kind of a touristy section. It was above a Napoli pizza place, very clearly owned by the guy who owned the pizza place, and very clearly his fuckpad. The stove didn’t work. The tub didn’t work. There were two wall unit air conditionings: one useless, the other downstairs (yes, it was a two-level apartment) and pointed directly at a large pane of glass.

It was 100-plus degrees out every day as it has also been all throughout this week, and the temperature inside was absolutely punishing. Crippling. The kind of heat that kills people, as climate-crisis era Europe has found out for the last however long and will I guess continue to find out unless somebody here ever figures out how to freeze water. America is a recent enough country to have refrigeration infrastructure. Europe, in this regard, is well and truly fucked. And no, the irony of AC contributing to global warming isn’t lost on me. I’m just trying to stay alive.

The kid has been doing well. Better than on the Southwest trip, which was largely a nightmare. The four-hours-ish drive from Zagreb to Budapest gave a chance to see some of the countryside, the lake in Hungary that I’m told is where the people go to ease their summery sufferings, and so on. We hit a big Tesco and got a Lego excavator for The Pecan to build; she was stoked. The washer where we’re staying broke pretty much immediately on first use, so we need to figure out a laundry solution, so I think that’s this morning’s problem. And yes, the morning has started. It’s after 7AM CET now. The kid’s been going to bed after 9PM, and I’ve had the alarm set for 6AM since I haven’t been getting to sleep before 11 and actually need to be present mentally and physically for these days — that is, I need to have the capacity to engage, ever — and she was up before my phone even started playing that obnoxious, jaunty little tune that I’m too lazy to change. First rays of the rising sun, and all that. That’s been brutal.

Every second I write while we’re here is a scrape, including this one, and only happens because The Patient Mrs. lets it. That’s not a great dynamic for anybody, but I don’t stop needing to write just because I’m someplace else.

There are two shows I’m planning to see while I’m here: Brant Bjork Trio and Stoned Jesus/Dopelord. I have no idea where either is or how I’ll get there, but I’ve got time. We’re here until I think Aug. 7, then fly back to New York (ugh, JFK; weeks out and already I’m dreading it) to finish out the summer. The Pecan is in camp next week, and that should lessen some of the impact of our days as parents — also give her a valuable life experience blah blah — provided she can make it through without getting kicked out, which last year at this time was a standard that proved too high multiple times over. I’ve got my fingers crossed for her, but when she has a hard time, you know it.

This apartment is swank in a bourgeois kind of way, and that’s fine. The air conditioning works. There’s a bag of ice in the freezer we’re rationing out. A Nespresso. A working shower. It does not feel like a fuckpad. I haven’t had much chance to try out my magyarul other than to order coffee, but hopefully at some point I’ll be able to make a fool out of myself attempting to have an actual conversation with someone or trying to glean some necessary information. “Hol van a A38?,” and so on.

I hope you have a great and safe weekend. I have a couple things confirmed for next week, premieres on Tuesday and Thursday, but honestly don’t know how much I’ll be able to do around that. I’ve bowed out on doing two bios already and might do another. There’s news that came in as I was heading to Bear Stone that I’m still behind on. When I get home, much as I’m able, I plan to knuckle down on this thing, but it’s hard being pulled in multiple directions and I can’t really argue for more time when all it is from my family’s point of view is an indulgence for which the occasional payoff is the ego boost of someone saying something nice about my work on the internet and my own fleeting fulfillment before I need to do the next thing.

Speaking of the next thing, that’s breakfast. Thanks for reading. Have fun, stay safe and cool, and hydrate. All the water.

FRM.

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Tags: self-titled, Subliminal Sounds, Sweden, Träd Gräs och Stenar, Träden, Träden Self-titled

This entry was posted on Friday, July 12th, 2024 at 10:07 am and is filed under Bootleg Theater. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.