Fake Swedish
Get Correct

It hasn't happened to me often in recent times, overwhelmed by the unending media-musical blob, to be so impressed and involved in listening to an album that I can't control the desire to move, tap my foot, infected by a pulsating energy.

I should preface by saying that I've never been an enthusiast of the "garage" genre, but the impetuous debut of the Americans (North Carolina) Fake Swedish, "Get Correct," literally made me leap and has monopolized my player in the last few days; however, I would be even more satisfied if one of their black vinyl records could spin on my Technics, as the so wonderfully ancient and raw sound of tracks like "No Exit" or "Beef Trigger" deserves. We are, as you may have guessed, in a territory that touches on "restoration." I've used this term not by chance. The young Fake Swedish, in fact, look back to a time, a sort of historical, not mythical, "golden age," in which rock and pop were one and there was no point in asking if "Strawberry Fields Forever," "No Fun," "Green River," "The Nazz Are Blue," "Born To Be Wild," "Get The Picture" pieces so different, belonged to the same "family"; even if some of these sold hundreds of thousands of copies, no one would have dreamed of bringing out the term "commercial."

It’s a return to a 60s psychedelia then, inspired by Love, The Yardbirds, but also influenced by the R&B and beat experience of historical bands like the Pretty Things. To complete the picture, I’ll say that the vocalist, as well as the author and guitarist of the group, Joe Romeo, (go, paisano!) candidly confessed in an interview to doing everything in the light of an everlasting love for the Beatles, and I would also add, for the Kinks. At this point, someone might rhetorically ask why not unearth the originals; why not stop at those milestones that represent the points of reference for our heroes. Questions more than legitimate if "Get Correct" were only a "philologically" flawless operation put into action by young musical talents driven by a simple desire for "return to order" (or disorder, it's up to you).
In them, however, there is not just a sincere adherence to the aesthetic-musical models of those unrepeatable years, but also something authentic, a genuine desire to create and play, with naturally vintage instrumentation, the music they truly like, that they feel closer to their own sensitivity. The distress, the anger, the desire to be present are those of the disillusioned post-everything generation, arriving late at the grand feast, when even the bones have been well-picked. What to do, then? Give in to the rock gravediggers, numerous at least as much as those of the novel, and search for unlikely "new paths," which inevitably end up being already trodden?

None of this. The Fake Swedish have decided, fortunately, to follow their instinct, convinced that those gnarled roots are still capable of "extracting" their precious sap. They are Fake Swedish, but they are not Fake Rockers: this is sure!