Sthlm is grey and cold as fuck today, but I can definitely sense that spring is here. I hear the birds, I notice the small shy flowers, I feel the sun behind the clouds. That makes me hopeful and happy. AND it’s just a few days until TRAUMA is out! OMG, it’s out on Friday!

Ok, here we go –

I was interviewed by X the other day.
X is one of the more renowned reporters in Sweden. X is famous, fame is X’s main mission, I think.
X earns money, and loves to talk about it, “How much money do you earn?”. I find this money-talk very depressing. It’s OK to discuss money (or the lack of it), I do it now and then with my artist-colleagues – To reach break-even is very good – to earn money is however something remarkable. Deadly boring, but necessary sometimes.
X has become pretty wealthy letting interesting people (like myself) desperately try to save the interview by giving detailed, philosophical, personal, funny, deep and (sometimes) clever answers to their questions.
During the 2,5 hour long session, X never asked me one follow-up question what so ever. Once X said, “Eh… I didn’t understand your answer”, but that’s not really a follow-up question, is it? Ghaaa, depressing.
Already after one or two minutes, I noticed that X had been a little lazy with the research, “I have to admit that I haven’t spent so much time with your new album* yet”, X confessed, with a mix of ignorance and arrogance you so often meet when you’re art form is called “pop-music”.
(*Read: “I fast forwarded your album, while checking my FB. I didn’t bother to read the lyrics, ’cause I’m not a ‘lyrics kind of person’.”)
Alright, I told X, “It’s alright, it’s ok”. I hate to be too eager, too demanding. I know there are much more important things than my new album, and I started to feel ashamed sitting there with vain expectations of a fulfilling and interesting conversation. But my inner Bob Dylan was moaning, suggesting not to give away anything but a hard time, ’cause that’s what X deserved.
But instead I worked hard. I gave and I gave and I gave everything. I pretended that the questions on the laptop that X kept staring at, with a bored but restless expression on the face, not was written all on routine. I pretended not to sense how perfunctory every new question came out. I also tried to ignore the fact that X never confirmed me with a nodding head, a smile or any eye contact. X was so occupied with the next question on the screen that he didn’t manage to listen to my answers.
Afterwards I was exhausted, I felt like a tramp. It felt like I sold a piece of me – without getting paid.
How much money do you earn?
– Go fuck yourself!


Sincerely Yours,