What Do You Expect? They're Swedish!

Friday night at the Fasching Jazz Club in Stockholm, a group of musicians gathered to cover the varied discography of the acclaimed group, Steely Dan. Because of the artistry of the original musicians and the fact that the dedicated fans of Steely Dan are many and highly suspect of any band of pretenders, it would be a daring undertaking for any band.

So you can imagine that skepticism was high when 13 musicians, none over the age of 25, crowded onto the stage of the venerated jazz club. It was doubtful that these kids would have the chops to pull off the music that some of the most talented musicians in jazz and rock have performed. In addition, some of the songs were older then the oldest of the group known as The Stealy Band.

It takes pluck to perform your very first live gig in the oldest jazz club in Stockholm. It takes audacity to choose the complex music and often highly ironic lyrics of Steely Dan as your musical Carte de Jour. But on this night, the assembled group of musicians and singers from the Royal College of Music, not only were proficient, but the standing ovation from the overflow and appreciative crowd was testament that the kids had nailed it. To paraphrase the famous movie line, this band had the overflow crowd by the second bar of Time Out Of Mind, the opening number.

Rock music has always been the outlet for adolescent ache. But it's rare when rock captures the complications of adult sorrows almost purely with its sound. Steely Dan is the most unlikely hit-singles band. Steely Dan has abandoned many musical conventions and literal lyrics for an unpredictable, free-roving style. Less a band than a concept, Steely Dan is one of the most advanced, successful, and mysterious units of popular music. Combining pop hooks with jazz harmonies with complicated time changes and cryptic lyrics, this band sounds like no one else.

It would be a reach to say the The Stealy Band group captured the nuances of those jaded and sardonic lyrics. As an example, on Deacon Blues the Steely Dan founders Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, paint a picture of dark simplicity: "Drink Scotch whiskey all night long and die behind the wheel." Becker has been quoted, "We're about people who are more or less at the end of their proverbial tethers.” That's Steely Dan: frustration and failure at the heart of the party. As it happens, not many of these young achievers could be acquainted with that side of Steely Dan. They couldn’t be Kid Charlemagne. They can't know Josie. Don't know Peg. Yet.

Steely Dan is famous for their use of chord sequences and harmonies that explore the area of musical tension between traditional pop music sounds and jazz. In fact, they are known for their use of the mu major chord, often simply known to rock musicians as the "Steely Dan chord". It would be foolish of anyone to expect that these relatively inexperienced players could match the chops of such stellar former Steely Dan members as Jeff Baxter, Larry Carlton, Rick Derringer, Jeff Porcaro, Steve Gadd and Bernard Purdie. However, the enthusiasm and eerily dead on arrangements of Stealy Dan overcame any lack of playing (or life experience) shortcomings.

Running through a set list consisting of classics like The Royal Scam, Dirty Work, Deacon Blues, Reelin’ In The Years, Ricki Don’t Lose That Number and Josie, the young members did not shrink from their assignments. Vocalist Oskar Nilsson, sounding closer to early Steely Dan vocalist David Palmer then the later sounds of Donald Fagen was excellent, keeping the energy up all night. The four piece horn section (Kristian Brink and Jakob Gustafsson on tenor sax; Rikard Lindgren, trumpet; Lisa Bodelius, trombone) were spot on in their fills and solos. The rhythm section of bassist Kristofer Sundstom, keyboardist Edvin Nahlin and drummer Carl Ottosson kept the necessary pulse and harmonic support.

Guitarists Efraim Olofsson and Alexander Kronbrink had the unenviable chore of trying to replicate the signature Steely Dan guitar lead. Some of those solos are in the top 100 guitar solos of all time. Yet, somehow, The Stealy Band’s twin attack pulled it off to the delight of the audience, especially on Kid Charlemagne. While the guys were not note for note perfect, like they say, they were good enough for jazz.

The female soul-inspired backup singers in Steely Dan have the role of being not only the supporting vocalists, but are the foils to the middle aged angst of the protagonists in such songs as Babylon Sister, Peg and Hey, Nineteen. They often are the visual center point, as there isn’t much showmanship bombast coming from the rest of the band. As would befit a group in their first stage show, the trio of Ida Lindberg, Matilda Lindell and Emmma Salmonsson didn’t capture the necessary sultriness when not singing their parts. However, when the group stepped up to the microphone and opened their mouths, their talent captured the moment, especially on Babylon Sister and the encore, My Old School.

I have to give a nod to the soundboard at Fasching. To mike a 13-piece band that includes such diverse sounds as horns, voices, keyboards and electric guitars and then make them all sound distinct without any individual piece being overpowering is not easy. The Fasching crew did it with aplomb and some better-known groups could take a lesson from the guys at Fasching.

The standing ovation at the end of the two set show was proof of the crowd’s acceptance of The Stealy Band. The band received many cheers throughout the night's performance. When the audience would applaud and cheer at the end of each solo the players gave no acknowledgment. Not from any arrogance but from the stunned realization that the house was accepting their effort. Acceptance? Hell, they crowd loved them! When somebody at the table pointed out the humble lack of appreciation, a friend from Sweden responded, "What do you expect? They're Swedish!"

The show by The Stealy Band was, literally, better than advertised. There was a rumor going around that this was a one off show. That the whole set was a school laboratory project. That the members were doing it for school credit! If an exiting crowd that asks the question, “Will they play again?” means anything, then HEY! PROFESSOR! Give The Stealy Band an A+!

Monster (skier) of Lake Storsjön

Last year I tried to cross country ski for the first time. It looks so easy on the Nordic Track videos. I had visions of me gliding through the Scandinavian countryside, healthy and invigorated. My experience, however, was like my brain and my legs were on two different frequencies and I made about 20 yards when two attempts at a steep incline of about the size of a step on your front stoop were not only unsuccessful, but the resulting fall led me to hang up my skis and retreat to the coffee shop.

While the American TV sports coverage was all about football, here in Sweden it was skiing, both the downhill and the (dreaded) cross-country events. The cross-country event was the two-year-old Tour de Ski and is modeled on the Tour de France of cycling. Races this year were held in the Czech Republic, Germany and Italy over eight days. The event is a combination of cross country ski races. The overall results are based on the aggregate time for all events, as well as bonus seconds awarded on sprint and mass start stages.

Sweden was cheering for Charlotte Kalla, who was competing in the Tour de Ski for her first time. A feisty 20 year old, Charlotte hails from Östersund, a city of 57,000 residents. Östersund is famous for its cross-country ski trails and Storsjöodjur, the Great Monster of Lake Storsjön. The hometown girl, Kalla, has been competing internationally since 2004. She has been steadily improving her stature and in her ski sponsor’s bio it says she is “stubborn and goal focused.” Her gusty performance this weekend proved those words true and made her an overnight sports hero.

Over the course of her Tour de Ski, she had a pole break in a sprint race, costing her a possible win. In the race on Saturday, while attempting a move to the lead, she clipped her skis with another racer’s skis which caused her to fall and lose time and position. Getting back on her skis, she screamed a word that would have been bleeped on American TV (or maybe not as it was in Swedish) and preceded to literally chase down the leaders. While the experts were expounding on the error of this tactic, Kalla blew by skier after skier until she finished second, only 36 seconds behind the Tour de Ski leader going into Sunday’s grueling final event.

The final stage was held in pursuit style in freestyle technique, with the overall Tour leader starting first and all other competitors starting after according to their time behind in the overall standings. After a short lap of the Val di Fiemme stadium tracks, the course meandered down the valley to the base of the Final Climb. Two and half kilometers and 425 vertical meters up the Alpes Cermis later the first athlete across the finish line would be the winner. With all the energy expelled on her second place finish on Saturday, the pundits did not hold high hopes for Charlotte winning on Sunday.

Charlotte caught Virpi Kuitunen from Finland a third of the way up the Final Climb, and then made a decisive break with one kilometer to go. She accelerated quickly and Kuitunen had nothing to answer with. She crossed the finish line and collapsed, winning by a spectacular 36 seconds ahead of the second place Finn.

Arriving back home in Sweden, the smiling Charlotte was a national hero. Her picture was on the front of every newspaper, and the TV stations were falling all over themselves to get an interview with the ski star from Östersund. The city fathers, in a burst of civic pride gave Charlotte a piece of land in recognition for her heroic effort that put the city on the international map.

By listening to her heart, body and a indomitable will to win and not to what the “experts” said was what made Charlotte Kalla a champion.

Re-setting the Bar

Kajsa Bergqvist is the premier female Swedish high jumper. She has been a champion in world class high jumping events, winning an Olympic bronze medal, a gold and two bronze medals in the World Championships and two gold in the World Indoor Championships. She holds the current world record for the indoor high jump and is the Swedish record holder in both the indoor and outdoor women’s high jump.

Track and Field is a very big sport in Europe and the premier athletes are better known and respected then rock stars. The events are carried on European TV all summer long and are sponsored lucratively. The top tiers of European athletes are wealthy and connected, but not as much as the American professional athletes. Nonetheless, there is a lot of incentive to compete.

So, when Ms. Bergqvist announced this past Monday that she was retiring from high jumping, it was surprising. There were many who thought that her slump towards the end of last year was temporary. She just turned 31 this past October and though a veteran, probably had at least a year left to continue competing as a world-class athlete.

If she had an entourage of sponsors, a manager and advisors, perhaps she would have been pressured to stay on. Kajsa was just married on this past New Year’s Eve and in her retirement announcement she felt she was entering a “new phase” in her life and no longer felt motivated to keep competing, even after last year's long break away from the sport.

We so often criticize the athlete who hangs on past their prime, staying around only to collect a check when the skills have eroded. When that happens, we then shake our collective heads in scorn and forget the events that dazzled us with their skills. So I'm tipping my hat to an athlete who was honest to her fans, her sport and most importantly, to herself by getting out of the game when the time was right.


Way to go, Kajsa Bergqvist!

Home For A Time

I was shopping in the outdoor Christmas market in Kungsträdgården Park in downtown Stockholm. It opens about four weeks before Christmas and the booths are supposed to carry genuine Swedish hand crafted gifts. But every year, it seems the items are less handcrafted and even less Swedish.

I have a silly notion that because I live in Sweden, the gifts I send to the folks back home should be, you know, Swedish. Something they cannot find in some store called “Northern Lights” in a suburban mall. I hold out until the last minute, hoping against hope that I’ll meet some artist or crafts person that will have a garage full of the gifts I am looking for. Some year it will hit me that I have to buy that stuff in the summer when I am traveling through some area of Sweden where these artists actually practice their craft.

I was under the gun to get something for Mom. After walking up and down the promenade between the booths, trying to decide what to choose, I settled on a linen bag full of silicone that heats up in a microwave or freezes in a freezer. It is used to apply therapy to knees, joints or other hurting parts of your body. My mom has had sore knees for a while. I thought that this bag of silicone, wrapped in a homemade linen sack with runes of the ancient Vikings on the cloth would be a step up from the frozen pea bag she was using. Weighing in at 1.2 kilos, it was about the weight and length of a good-sized Jersey submarine sandwich. Hopefully, it would be less than a small fortune to ship back to the States.

I was leaving the market, with my silicone sack in a plastic bag, shivering a bit against the mid December damp and cold. I needed to go home, wrap the gift, take it to the mailing shop, find an envelope that would work and get it off in the post today. I was trying to decide what bus to take home when coming towards me on the promenade was an older man with a camera around his neck.

The man was a perfect fit for the holiday season with his chubby shape, round face with high cheekbones and round rimless glasses. He had a close-cropped beard that was whiter than gray and it gave him the look of whom else, but Santa Claus. He came up to about my shoulders in height and he had a down jacket that was open in spite of the cold dampness of the day. His stocking cap was centered on his head, and looked like an inverted ice cream cone. Over his shoulder he carried a small canvas sack.

As we approached one another our eyes met and he smiled slightly and approached me. When this normally happens I prepare myself for the next few uncomfortable minutes of conversation. My Swedish is terrible and I have learned to say, in something near Swedish, how sorry I am that my Swedish is horrible and does the other person speak English?

“Ah, English,” said my gnome like stranger, “Where are you from?” After my answer of the United States, our conversation then became a monologue. My now new friend began a crash course history of his working adult life. The man was a professional news photographer and he had visited the United States taking photos at the Winter Olympics at Lake Placid. Upon my answering his question about what part of the United States I came from, he told me about the vacation the news syndicate gave the reporters and photographers in Florida after the Lake Placid assignment.

He then launched into a history of the United States covering the last fifty years. How the only Olympic games to make a profit were in Los Angeles. Surprising me, he then rattled off every assassination attempt on Presidents and other American dignitaries, including the perpetrators. A strange thing for anyone to remember, I thought.

My new friend asked me where I lived and what I did for a living. I responded that I was a freelance writer and lived here in Stockholm. “What have you written?” he asked. I said I had written some articles for magazines and that I had written a book. “What book!” he exclaimed. As the fates would have it, I had a copy of The Swedish Golf Experience in my bag. I had brought it to a meeting I had earlier that day. The book is a collection of essays and photographs of golf courses in Sweden. As a photographer, he admired the photographs and seemed pleased that I had shared it with him.

Regretfully, our meeting had to come to a close. I thanked the man for his time and began my farewell. He asked if he could take a picture of me holding the book? He took the camera off his neck, a film cartridge style with automatic winding that was state of the art twenty some years ago. He snapped a few shots, posing me in exactly the way he wanted. He seemed genuinely pleased to be at work, clicking away. We shook hands, and I wished him a God Jul. He said he had to give me something.

Ignoring my protests about needing anything from him, he reached into his sack and pulled out a small book. The book, "Vinterdag", really no bigger than a pamphlet, was a story by the Swedish artist, Roland Svensson. Svensson is renowned for his drawings of scenes from the Sweden archipelago. My friend excitedly paged through the book, struggling with his English to impart the information contained within. Pulling a pen out of the same bag the book was in; he asked how to spell my name. Realizing that my protests were falling on deaf ears, I patiently gave him the letters. He then inscribed a salutation, "To Jene from ..." and signed with a flourish, "press photographer Hanst Dehlskon." I had never met this man before and now I knew about his past and he knew enough about me to want to take my picture and give me a remembrance. What made this casual meeting in a city park so special?

On the way home, carrying the gift from Hanst, I wondered about him. Was he a gregarious man who walked the city striking up conversations with receptive people? Or, was it the opposite, a lonely old man who just needed to talk with someone? Are there people in this world who need to talk to strangers for, as Springsteen wrote, to receive that human touch?

I really hoped for the former over the latter. I wanted my press photographer to be a gregarious, world traveler who regaled the fortunate ones that he would choose with his tales of adventures with famous people in exotic locations. I imagined Hanst sitting in his living room, surrounded by his kids and grand kids, enjoying the warm glögg and family Julbord. I watched in my mind’s eye as he leafed through photos taken of events he had witnessed and documented with his camera’s eye, remembering the stories behind the events he had photographed.

I don’t want to give the impression that I am telling this story as a life lesson. I don’t expect you to now get some insight into life, and begin to seek out lonely people to strike up conversations on city streets. I rarely do this myself. Herman Hesse has said, “One never reaches home, but wherever friendly paths intersect the whole world looks like home for a time.” There was something that made that man’s path cross mine on that December afternoon. I should do that sort of interaction more in my life. Because, as rare as I have those spontaneous conversations, more rarely do I ever regret them.