Jens Lekman
Night Falls Over Kortedala

THE REVIEW

It has already been written about, but it wasn't enough. It will never be enough to silence me in the pink zone where words are too many, where everything is superfluous. The voice, the arrangements, the lyrics.
Jens Lekman is currently the most updated compendium on the movement of popular music. Burt Bacharach would envy him, Elvis Costello would copy him, Dylan would strum chords on "Night Falls Over Kortedala". The ultimate right now.

If you've never asked yourself where happiness lies, well, ask yourself and while searching for the answer, let your minutes drip into the dazzling expanse of lights and chromatic ups and downs marked by strings and the almighty brass of "Sipping On The Sweet Nectar"; if you haven't asked yourself yet, ask yourself after the tum tum tum cha that smells of wonders and first kisses, petals, mazes, Europe, and Americas arm in arm in the autumnal jig playing in "The Opposite of Halleluja", a drumming jam session with rhyme triangulations and a piano played by the fingertips of an angel. If you're still hesitating, if you're still wavering on the meaning and place, then "A postcard To Nina" will help you find courage and answers: the ringing of lesbian chimes in a story of simulated love and dissimulated homosexuality colored by chorus coming directly from a certain perfectly baroque and luxurious coffee-latte soulman, like a letter posted from the station of the ending heart, and when we're on our knees, spinning with stars like in the cartoon, he goes: "yours truly, Jens Lekman". CHILLS.

And then, even the concrete hearts with thorns will crumble, the violins will apostrophize the collapse, and we will all float intoxicated by noble gases that euphorize among the birds and trinkets of "Shirin", an extraordinary love story at the hairdresser's told by the small steps of a little voice that hops, goes up and down between constellations, accelerations, and brakes on an oxygenated caterpillar ride.

And then when we all ask ourselves what happiness is, then, only then will we be dancing "Friday Night At The Drive-In Bingo", with Travolta's hair, with popcorn in hand, cradled by the saxophone that never stops, flattened on daddy's Cadi, many fake bachelite novels of a technicolor screenplay directed by this man to whom, volens aut nolens, one bows. Happiness is this: happiness in small things.

Jens Lekman: poet, Franciscan, sound sculptor: I love you.

Ps: the length of the sentences is intentional. Jens Lekman's talent is such that it makes me write these things, me, the sandwich-loving metalhead-punk-rebel.