Jens Lekman – Life Will See You Now (Secretly Canadian)

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A few years ago we were all entranced by the charming twee of Scottish team Belle & Sebastian, who’s material traversed the difficult subjects in their own faux-1960’s soundtrack kitsch-ness.  Then, locally, Lawrence Arabia brought us more lush, slightly cheesy songs like Apple Pie Bed which he interlaced with some deliciously clever lyrics.  At times Wellington’s Phoenix Foundation (and Sam Scott, in particular) are also capable similar treatments.  They often reference the lush, orchestrated arrangements found in music of the 1970’s – everything from ABBA to David Essex and Bowie.  And so the list goes on.  In this part of the world, at least, we are familiar with this ‘genre’ – if such a thing exists.  

Enter (or re-enter – he’s up to his fourth album, now) Swede Jens Lekman.  It totally meets fits the mould.  Scoop up Elton John’s disastrous excursions into tropical music (remember Rock of the Westies?), mix in some loose funk, some Casio disco (as in German band Trio) and a spot of Giorgio Moroder and sprinkle it all with the Swedish musician’s sonorous croon and some often disturbing lyrics and observations about banal commonplace situations.  For him, something as simple as the smell of a hotel shampoo bottle can tap into vivid memories and emotions.

This album is a set of evocative vignettes presented with Lekman’s confessional, hyper-specific storytelling style.  And despite his pervasively upbeat tone, he avoids heavy subject matters, especially when confronting fears of revelation.

Evening Prayer is a case in point.  On one level it’s a simple dance number but despite its very upbeat faux-Soul he’s singing about a friend who’s made a 3D print his back tumour and is carrying it around with him as a reminder of the pain he went through.  Lekman sings about the awkwardness of being a supportive friend through all this.

It’s been a long, hard year
For a friend who’s not sure if he’s close enough
To be allowed to care or just be there
To include you in his evening prayer

A recurring theme on this album is the awkwardness of showing love, of caring and getting the message across without it being misinterpreted.  As what depends on the situation of the song.  On the very tender What Can I tell Him, Lekman broaches the subject of mate-ship.  In his very forward, unpoetic style, he laments how to tell a friend that he loves him – but not in ‘that’ way.  In this song it’s more about why he’s been there for his friend – through break ups and bad times and good times.  When they are together, the conversation is very shallow, never revealing feelings or even mutual respect.   How, he poses, can he tell his friend how he ‘loves’ him?

I think this approach is highly original and quite refreshing.  Men don’t talk about their emotions like this.  Even singers choose to bury them in extrapolated poetry of observations of others rather than put their hand up in person.  We can all sing about our relationships with our lovers, or potential lovers but we’ll never reveal what we think of our friends.

On Postcard #17 Lekman illuminates the internalized anxieties that can stunt emotional growth in the space of a 2-minute breath – then brushes of the source of those fears as “fucking ridiculous.”  Elsewhere, he takes on the tangled complexities of interpersonal relationships.  Take the very cheery, Caribbean flavoured What’s That Perfume That You Wear? Which looks for the silver lining is a break up.  He argues that it’s better to have loved and lost: “At least it was real/If it could hurt like that.”

Over and over he makes reference to walking along waterfronts, harbours, and city streets to illustrate the mental state of his characters who all seem to be in permanent reminiscent mode.

Occasionally he pulls out a bit of glib poetry such as “rusty old padlock hanging on our hearts” (How Can I Tell Him) or his trite comment about “the smile that only you smile” (Our First Fight).  And he fumbles a bit on the opening song Know Your Mission with a barrage of specific details about 1990’s headliners like Rapper Pub Daddy (not Diddy). Lady Di and that gawd-awful outfit Chumbawamba.  What the point of the song is was lost on me. I was too busy trainspotting the references.

If there was a geeky Big Bang Theory moment, then it’s scoped out on How We Met, the Long Version, where he mischievously retells the history of the whole universe from the first star explosion until now.  On the Latin-influenced Wedding in Finistère, (a song about a wedding DJ talking to the bride just before her big moment) he contemplates the anticipation and wonder of rites of passage we go through as we get older and lists them in the most delightful way:

She said, “Like a five-year-old watching the ten-year-olds shoplifting
Ten-year-old watching the fifteen-year-olds French kissing
Fifteen-year-old watching the twenty-year-olds chain-smoking
Twenty-year-old watching the thirty-year-olds vanishing

This is his fourth album.  His sly humour is key to its heartfelt nature; it inverts pop by making happy songs with sad concerns cloaked in the twee, kitsch clothing of 60’s and 70’s popular music.  I love it.  It’s a collection you can keep listening to your secret friend.  In the age of i-tunes and Spotify, it’s great to have something just for you. Don’t tell your friends about this one.  Keep it to your self – your own guilty pleasure.

Tim Gruar

Click here to read the 13th Floor interview with Jens Lekman.

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