The first thing you hear — and it’s quick, but it’s there — is birdsong. Swedish mushroom folk serenity-bringers Barr released their debut album, Skogsbo is the Place (discussed here), in 2008 through the Transubstans Records-affiliated imprint Sakuntala. MySpace era. I bought it, as you can read in that link, after sampling an MP3 from the now-gone All That’s Heavy webstore, and digging further into the entire affair thereafter. It has proven almost infinitely listenable — the kind of record that calls you back over time, or even just pops into your head somewhere along the line while you’re listening to something else; a source of sonic coincidence. That’s what happened this week and prompted the revisit, but for all the time I’ve spent hearing it, I’m not sure I ever bothered to look up what or where Skogsbo is until now.

I’ve listened to enough Scandinavian metal to know “skog” is “forest” in English, and that makes sense with the cover art of Skogsbo is the Place, and in the east of Sweden, there are a bunch of places with the designation. Bus stops, little spots. A nature preserve south of Gothenburg that would be a pretty good candidate, but the band were based in Stockholm and Finspång, so who knows. “Skogsbo,” the word, translates to “forest estate,” so fair enough. I guess it could just be a cottage in the woods belonging to someone in the band — vocalist Andreas Söderström (also harmonium, glockenspiel, dulcimer), vocalist/guitarist Patrik Andersson, vocalist/flutist Hanna Fritzson, vocalist/guitarist Marcus Palm, bassist/cellist Svante Söderqvist, pianist Patric Thorman, percussionist Fredrik Ohlsson — or it could just as easily be a made-up place that doesn’t really exist. It doesn’t make the record any less transporting either way.

“Summerwind” is the opener that gets underway with that birdsong noted above, and that’s not the last nature-sound throughout. The folkish impression is immediate with harmonium and acoustic guitars backing soulful, sweetly melodic vocals, and that presence of arrangement, who’s singing or who’s playing what at any given moment, will change from song to song — Fritzson taking lead vocals on centerpiece “Calling My Name” and the title-track that follows, or or the meandering duet vocals over piano of “Words Would Do,” others intertwining at various points between “Summerwind,” “Words Would Do” and “He Ain’t a Friend, He’s a Brother.” Those three serve as the immersive lead salvo that marks one’s passage into these woods, lines like, “I watch the sunrise/It soothes me,” and “Far, far away” and “Let everyone surround you” standing out over arrangements likewise lush, be it the cello sneaking into the end of “Summerwind” and “He Ain’t a Friend, He’s a Brother,” flute amid the harmonies of “Calling My Name,” the subtle snare shuffle on the penultimate “Moonfall” or the return of cello on “Sister,” the closing track which builds in its finish and pulls itself apart leading to captured forest-at-night audio — there’s a cough and some speech as well — before “Lovers Alone” ends the proceedings as a semi-secret track, no less gorgeous for being tucked away as it is.

One wouldn’t call Skogsbo is the Place long at 43 minutes, in no small part because its songs are so wonderfully engaging, but they’re not necessarily short in the way one finds a lot of neo-folk operating. “Words Would Do” at four and a half minutes and the lyric-less title-track at three minutes are the two shortest cuts (“Lovers Alone” might actually be shorter, but it’s somewhere around three minutes as well), and everything else tops six. “Moonfall” stretches to 6:53 and uses its time well to build into a melodic payoff that’s still more about the journey than the destination, and certainly “Summerwind” and “He Ain’t a Friend, He’s a Brother” and “Calling My Name” and “Sister” prove memorable enough with their understated hooks and classic feel that while I can’t really say anything that at any point involves a glockenspiel isn’t indulgent on some level, it’s an indulgence well worth making. Like precious few albums I’ve encountered since, Skogsbo is the Place has the ability to carry the listener along its course, and with particular attention paid to atmosphere and the overarching organic presentation, there’s no regrets in going where it goes.

It was one of the first records I wrote about for this site that wasn’t outwardly heavy but carried a presence of tone and melody and/or an emotional heft to coincide with its abidingly natural psychedelia. It’s not acid folk in the sense of being coated in reverb or blissed out on effects or any of that kind of thing. I think there’s electric guitar on there, but it’s surrounded by acoustics, 12-string, and the diversity of the vocal arrangements to the point that it’s clearly not intended to be a primary factor. Some of the songs sound like the strum came first, others the vocals, others other things. That spirit of song-happening-to-artist is rampant throughout, and the more I hear Skogsbo is the Place, the more it feels like an album I’ll continue to come back to, like visiting an old friend, or a brother. Time changes your context of appreciation, but some records continue to speak to the person you’ve become as well as the person you were. 13 years isn’t eternity, but when I think of the amount of music I’ve come across in that time, Barr‘s debut feels all the more special.

The band’s 2012 follow-up, Atlantic Ocean Blues (discussed here), gave up some of the intimacy of the first offering in favor of breadth, marked in particular by the fuller, jammier take on “He Ain’t a Friend, He’s a Brother” that made its way onto the release. To be perfectly honest with you, I keep that album on my phone in case of emergencies, so I’m not going to say a bad word about it or the resonance it shares with its predecessor. To the best of my knowledge, Barr haven’t done anything since, and whether theirs was a two-album course or if they ever do anything else, I consider myself fortunate to have this music in my life.

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

—

I woke up this morning before four. I haven’t slept well all week, that helps nothing. Yesterday was a turnaround point though. The morning was wretched. We’ve been trying to push on potty training with The Pecan, and just… no. He’s flat-out refused it, and it’s made the house a miserable place and me miserable and stressed and I finally yesterday decided fuck it. I took a xanax in the morning and by the time I put him upstairs for a rest — he doesn’t nap anymore, but goes upstairs for an hour or 90 minutes or however long in the afternoon, and just kind of chills out with himself, plays, whatever; it’s a pattern that benefits everybody; Daniel Tiger has a whole song about a quiet rest being good for you — did some vocals for nascent-heavy-industrial-project, worked on more posts for today and by the time that was done, I’d decided that’s it. I don’t care anymore.

I don’t care when he pisses in the toilet. I don’t care when it happens. Means nothing in the grand scheme of his life. I’ll change his fucking diapers for as long as it takes. I don’t care anymore. It’s not worth the struggle or the stress, or him losing his mind or holding in poop for two days because he feels bad about going in his diaper but is terrified of the potty. I just can’t do it anymore. I don’t care that much. I’m sorry. There’s part of me that feels like I should rip off his diaper, refuse to put another one on, push him out of the nest, and so on, but seriously, fuck it. Maybe I’ll give don’t-be-a-prick a shot and see how that goes.

Yesterday afternoon? Much better. I felt like I’d pushed a weight off my shoulder and because I wasn’t miserable, he wasn’t either. We played and read books and he pissed in his diaper and it was fine. The day proceeded. We had dinner.

He’s been off from school all week. Spring break. We’ve had some real hang-out time. I’ve been spoiled sleeping mornings by him going to school, and there continues to be a big difference in my head between getting up at 5AM or before (I beat the alarm a couple days this week, including today) and getting up at 6AM or even later. Maybe I’ll nap later if I can.

I can’t. I have an interview this afternoon that I rescheduled from yesterday because I was such a mess and then kind of zoned out on meds.

I have more writing to do. Another news post I’d like to have go up today — that’ll be six posts; always gotta pack stuff in on Friday, I guess — and then the second of my two interviews for the Roadburn ‘zine. I put together the Steve Von Till piece yesterday or the day before. Wednesday, it was. The Patient Mrs. took The Pecan out of the house so I could get some time, I wound up transcribing that and Tau both. Still need to write up Tau. That was a cool chat. Seems like a nice guy. Steve Von Till I hadn’t talked to in a long while, so that was interesting as well. He’s kind to put up with my stupid fucking questions about process.

Hey, I like process.

The birds are out and yelling at the sun to rise, so The Pecan will be up soon. It’s almost six. I’m gonna try and get that other post done before it’s breakfast time and then, I don’t know, finish my coffee? That’d be cool. I can’t seem to sit still these days.

Am I the only one super-anxious about shows coming back? Not because of the plague, but because of the shows themselves? I’m not worried about wearing a mask or social distancing, but I’m not sure I ever want to leave the house again either. I miss live music, but there’s so much other bullshit about shows I don’t miss. People, most venues, taking pictures, the work of writing up a live review and knowing that no one’s going to care about it, driving there, driving back, losing basically two days because I was out so late, the pre-show anxiety, the post-show fatigue.

It feels like so much, like the prospect of having that in my life again is overwhelming. I wasn’t dude-at-three-shows-a-week anymore anyway — I did my fucking time — but still. The thought of being out and around. It’s troubling in a way I didn’t anticipate when the world went into lockdown last year and concerts evaporated.

If you have any thoughts, I’d appreciate. On that happy note, thank you for reading. Have a great and safe weekend. Don’t forget to hydrate — so important — and watch your head. New merch up next week, I think.

FRM.

The Obelisk Forum

The Obelisk Radio

The Obelisk merch