01	Straffad Moder & Dotter (Mother & Daughter Punished)						05:04
	02	Garmgny (Garm's Bark)						03:33
	03	Namndemans-Ola (Commissioner Ola)						02:40
	04	Kulleritova						00:55
	05	Vittrad (Crumbling Away)						04:00
	06	Skallen (Cranium)						03:11
	07	Flusspolska (Tonsillitis Polka)						01:11
	08	Antiokia (Antioch)						03:03
	09	Liten Kersti (Little Kersti)						05:24
	10	Inte Sorja Vi... (We Won't Grieve...)						02:53
	11	Domschottis (Judgement Schottische)						03:46
	12	Den Bortsalda (Sold Away)						04:23
	13	Styvmodern (Stepmother)						02:58
	14	Klevabergselden (Kleveberg's Fire)						04:58

Omnium Recordings
1994
OMM 2008D
Label Website: www.noside.com


Garmarna
(Псы)
1994
Vittrad
(Осколки)

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1. Straffad Moder & Dotter
(Наказанные мать и дочь) music: S.Brisland-Ferner, text: trad., arr. Garmarna 5:03
2. Garmgny
(Гарм лает) S.Brisland-Ferner 3:33
3. Namndemans-Ola
(Ола присяжного) trad. arr. 2:30
4. Kulleritova trad. arr. 0:55 text
5. Vittrad
Осколки S.Brisland-Ferner 4:00
6. Skallen
(Лай) S.Brisland-Ferner 3:11
7. Flusspolska R.Westman 1:11
8. Antiokia
(Антиохия) S.Brisland-Ferner 3:04
9. Liten Kersti
(Маленькая Керсти) trad. arr. 5:22 text
10. Inte sorja vi...
(Нет нам заботы) trad. arr. 2:53 text
11. Domschottis
(Соборный шоттиш) G.Ringqvist 3:46
12. Den Bortsalda
(О проданной) trad. arr. E.Hardelin 4:23 text
13. Styfmodern
(Мачеха) trad. arr. 2:50 text

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Stefan Brisland-Ferner fioler, altfiol, vevlira, strakharpa, mungigor, kor & rytm
Emma Hardelin rost, fiol & flojt
Jens Hoglin trummor & slagverk
Gotte Ringqvist lutgitarr, fiol, strakharpa, mungigor, kor & rytm
Rickard Westman bosoki & gitarrer

Hans Lebanzski & Nicklas Holmgren: sampler & rytm
Elina Nordvall-Meijer: sang pa (5)
Inspelad & mixad 12.93 & 01-03.94 i GREAT NORTHERN SOUND STUDIOS, Sundsvall
Inspelad & producerad av Hans Lebanszki
Mixad av Nicklas Holmgren & Garmarna forutom spar 1, 4, 8, 12, 13 som mixades av Hans Lebanzski & Garmarna
Digitalmastrat av Peter in De Betou pa Cutting Room
Foto: Peter Hamberg
Grafisk form, bildredigering: Per Mattsson
Ursprungsbilder: Petter Kallioinen
Tack!
Peter Jonsson, Matts & Lasse Hammerman, Lena Erlingsson, Bjorn Eriksson, Dynesius Musik, Gun Westman, Totte Mattsson, Leif Eriksson, Styrbjorn Bergelt & Anna Sjoberg





Mr. Bergman, I think there are some people you should meet...:
Garmarna at Cedar Cultural Centre
Originally published on www.tc-spectator.com September 17, 1999 under the pseudonym Carole Alguire

Every so often, I am struck dumb and blind by a band, paralyzed by the sheer significance and passion of the music. This happens with no frequency-in fact, I'd rather it happen a bit more frequently. And it seems as time grinds on that less and less music piques my interest. I went through a long, drink-my-own-urine music dry spell for a few years-I mean, c'mon, I wasn't even getting sick of that stupid goddamn Smash Mouth song. I wish they would walk on the sun. Or at least get pushed out an airlock on the journey there. Or impaled on a satellite antenna.

Until last Christmas.

A friend gave me a Swedish folk band's disc. She thought it would inspire me (I've had an on-off writing relationship with a play that incorporates elements of ancient Norse mythology). It did. And, suddenly, brilliantly, the music world was sunny again. Tiny baby bunnies bounded up and down green hillsides. Butterflies rested upon my nose. And Hobbes was lecturing under an apple tree.

To the uninitiated, I describe Garmarna as Beowulf meets Queensryche meets Joni Mitchell meets Bjork. Theirs is a music that is expansive, incorporating elements of folk, techno and rock-they've taken everything from the past millennium to make music for the next, in a genre-resistant Manifest Destiny banquet for the ears and soul. And Garmarna (pronounced "GAR-muh-na") makes it work. This is not your father's Swedish band. King Carl XVI Gustaf sent them as working apology for Roxette.

The live performance, as in the recordings, is commanding without being overpowering, haunting without being melancholy. Garmarna's work is usually not happy, in that dippy, dream catcher new-age/pop sort of way with all the stringy hair and Hope. It is quite unlike the great, boring bulk of European "world music"-that kind of Americans listen to and think, "How quaintly Old World!" and assume, wrongly, that Germans wear lederhosen and Haagen-Dazs is better because it has a phony Euro-name. This is not from the Sweden that Minnesotans allude to during Lutheran church basement lefse and lutefisk feeds. Remember that they come from the same country that produced Bergman.

The lyrics are Swedish folk songs, many originating from medieval times. Garmarna sings of knights and trolls, werewolves and murder, unrequited love and true love. An example from the song "Gamen": "King Valemo, here you sit free from sorrow./Your daughter will burn at the stake tomorrow."/"Fly away, old vulture, as quick as you can-/My daughter has married an honest man." The band does not update the lyrics to make them more palpable for modern ears (indeed, they sing in Swedish, making them unsuited for a mass media unaccustomed to playing anything more foreign than Ricky "Vida Loca" Martin). Instead, the words are saturated with history and magic. But not the Shakopee RenFest sort of "Black Adder" history and "spooky gypsy" magic. The music has a decidedly modern feel, but deftly maintains its heritage without adding whatever Sweden's version is of a sickly Cockney accent. Garmarna is the next evolutionary step in their home country's tradition, adding a contemporary edge to the continuum. They know it's their history and wisely know a tradition is meaningless without a present-day life. So instead of living in a past they don't understand, they learn what they can and then put the knowledge through a prism. How many bands credit the hurdy-gurdy maestro with programming the drum machine, too? How many folk bands' drummers do the jumping-cymbal-slam at the end of the set? At one point, I thought they were going to smash their priceless-looking violins. No such luck.

Garmarna's selections are mysterious and ethereal, delivered by Emma Hardelin's matching vocals. Her voice is crystalline but substantial, pitch-perfect as she unveils each new verse, the vocal equivalent of watching a very svelte Egyptian belly-dancer turn her smoldering mascara-heavy sensuality into a high-frequency, touch-me-and-die seduction. When Hardelin sings a cappella, it is easy to get lost in the aural spider web emanating from her-especially after you turn and stare threateningly at the scummy hippie university students behind you who are chatting amicably about their rent, dude. Hardelin is no will-o'-the-wisp folkie; she switches between ghostly and robust, taking care to hit almost everything in between... except wrath. When her singing isn't seamless, it's meek-she loses confidence in her ability to convey a song's terror and the ritual fever gets confused. Hardelin would do well to study singing-growling. Sometimes her lyrics call for a nice, pained, vocal chord stress-fest and she doesn't provide. Someone, get her a recording of Ella Fitzgerald's "Mack the Knife," quick! Or maybe a pack of Lucky Strikes.

The foundation of most songs is an electronic pulse set not quite fast enough to play at a techno club. Over this is an acoustic guitar, a bass, a violin or two, a hurdy-gurdy and a drum kit. All band members are multitaskers-Hardelin, guitarist Gotte Ringqvist and violinist/hurdy-gurdy/programmer Stefan Brisland-Ferner all play a mean fiddle. (I get the sense Brisland-Ferner is something of a mad scientist, although that may have a lot to do with his Johnny Rotten coif.) The drummer, Jens Hoglin, and the bassist, Rickard Westman, both picked up additional instruments, too. At times, the sound produced from this array of instruments is more layered than baklava. But it is never muddled. Oh, wait, except for that one time Hoglin misunderstood his cue and started banging away on the drum kit-to the amused looks of his bandmates.

Since there is no one actively controlling the computer pumping out the beeps and bass (Brisland-Ferner hits a few buttons and then, I assume, prays Y2K doesn't settle in early), my suspicion is that the performance is fairly set in stone, allowing no room for improvisation. As with Hardelin's vocals, there is very little active risk-taking. I would love to get a taste of what this band's jam sessions must sound like. I can hear them arguing in their sing-song native tongue, "No, you came in too late! Do it AGAIN! From the top. En, to, tre..."

At the end of the concert's second encore, I found myself wanting still more. I wasted my junior high hero worship/lust years by avoiding Band Guys-I didn't even have a Jon Bon Jovi poster on my bedroom ceiling like my friend Yvonne. Garmarna makes me want to plaster my life with posters and stickers and those little bubble gum mini-albums that they used to sell at the drug store (I had one of Abba's Voulez Vous and another of Blondie's Autoamerican). I wanted a third encore: to stay up all night with them getting fucked up on fifth-rate vodka. I wanted to sleep with each of them, even the chick-although I'd be quite happy with Ringqvist alone. (Again, how many folk concerts make YOU want to throw YOUR panties at the band? None. It would just get a Concerned Look from Suzanne Vega and a long talk about gender roles or something. These people, on the other hand, make folk/world music sexually hot and philosophically dark. As if from the mouth of Dionysus himself. Ginsberg would have liked these guys.)

I want to move to Sweden and organize their fan club, working long, thankless hours as they relax by the pool, perfecting their diva tantrums and randomly, spontaneously overturning furniture. More aquavit? Yes, sir, right away, sir! They wanted stone-ground mustard for the herring, no excuses! You're fired!

Generally, when I like a band, my expectations are too high, I leave live shows disappointed-and sympathetic: maybe they are just tired, maybe they were brilliant in Tucson, Minneapolis was one of the last stops on the entire tour. With Garmarna, however, I left jealous, envying the band for being so apocalyptically good. Envy not only because I can't be their friend, but envy because I can't BE Garmarna. And envy, for me, is always the signal that I have been deeply, profoundly, fundamentally impressed. Probably not the healthiest way to express admiration, but it's sincere.

I'm eagerly anticipating their return to the Twin Cities in March for NorthSide's Nordic Roots Festival II. And although I'll probably chicken out (I am a Minnesotan, after all, and therefore a modest lass), I will buy new underwear beforehand.