Andres Lokko

Andres Lokko

Andres Lokko

JAKOBSBERG En av mina favoritskådespelare någonsin gick, 65 år gammal, bort tidigt på långfredagen. Imorgon, när jag är hemma igen, ska jag se om Whitnail & I och höja ett litet glas till Richard Griffiths geni och livsverk.

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Andres Lokko
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STOCKHOLM Skrev man I’m Still Waiting så skrev man I’m Still Waiting. Och dessutom ingick i både The Clan och The Corporation. Work well done, sir.

Andres Lokko

STOCKHOLM Veckan kan onekligen börja sämre än med (ännu) en vackert sakral ny James Blake-ballad, Our Love Comes Back, från kommande albumet Overgrown. Fast här i en knappnålsfallande ödesmättad livetolkning. Du lyssnar på den till exempel här.

Andres Lokko


STOCKHOLM Ikväll håller Magnus Carlson och jag i en liten pop-quiz på Riche. Jag tror att vårt tema är, eh, London. Dra ihop ett litet lag! Kom dit! Drick en bloody mary! Svara rätt på alla frågor! Vinn nåt!

Andres Lokko
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STOCKHOLM Ikväll må det vara Louis CK på Globen (ja, jag ska dit), men tills dess är det strikt Mount Kimbie-lördag på Rörstrandsgatan.


Andres Lokko
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STOCKHOLM Och nu har någon med god smak äntligen lagt upp Rhyes makalösa Last Dance på youtube. Älskar den låten lite för besinningslöst. Kanske hjälper det till att den påminner så mycket om den här, en av de nitton bästa discosånger som någonsin har spelats in:

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Andres Lokko


Everybody is always desiring already imagined things.
When we travel between thresholds, people say: “you’re hiding.”
Not everything can be so easily explained.

We have a bellyache, a big stink, a major grouse or two with manufactured knowledge.
But how do you build an album about not knowing?
Now your voice is in my throat, floating there…
Often people take pills for these things.
To us the body is no longer psychological.
It’s certainly not a container, we don’t believe in metaphors.
Like dog/wolf—there aren’t many anymore.

Still at twilight something blurs over your shoulder.
Which is it?
It’s prickly.

Our hair is out.

We have made some decisions.
We want to fail more, act without authority.
Plus there’s something phlegmatic about the world state don’t you think?
There’s a blood system promoting biology as destiny.
A series of patriarchies that’s a problem to the Nth degree.
What about hyper-capitalism, this homicidal class system, the school system that’s kaput?
Then there are castles everywhere—look at them fake tanning and signing autographs!

At least there’s one thing we stand behind.
There’s still an ecosystem right? And here’s this sound system.
We dusted it off. Electronic is just one place in the body. We went temporarily acoustic.
We made our own instruments. We took an old bedspring, a microphone and:
“Stay out here…”
Now we’re bending our voices to sound like Emily R., who recorded the track on her cellphone speaker.

No habits!
There are other ways to do things.

Still sometimes it all seems so bad.
Don’t worry we won’t commit Harakiri, stomach cutting or anything like it.
The honor system is corrupt, just another privilege.
Like how it’s a privilege to make an album, to move freely.

We just have to go faster we mean breakneck we mean “like crazy.”

How at 5am that warehouse beat is coming up like sour steam.
All over the dance floor we’re asking: can this DNA turn into something else?
It’s not metaphorical. It’s explicit.
There are surgeries and fantasies and holes sweating through the wall.
It’s a question about feelings. It’s a question about who gets to risk.

But things don’t change so easily.
There’s still Monsanto, fracking and “terminator seeds.”
Every morning we wake up wondering: who’s kicking who on the street corner?

Now we have to start. We choose process over everything else.
Letting go of outcomes is another privilege.
Keep it lateral.
We ask our friends to help.

Together we leave the village and walk down the road. The light starts exercising itself. The old sun is out in his winter jumpsuit doing sit-ups and squat thrusts between the nettles and moldy brush.

10 more! We say to him. Get shaking!

Our walk gets longer. It’s a walk in the panpipes of the body. We come to the edge. So much water. The ocean is twice its original size. We take a bunch of surveys. They know everything about us. We don’t buy what they say. We take a heap of estrogen. All around us things are howling and then we stand on the pier end. The light is pink and green and pink and green. It reminds us of home—like we imagine it could be. But when the color pancakes out over the horizon, we don’t know what we’re looking at. That’s ok. This time it’s structural.

No habits!

Of course we’re growing restless.

Andres Lokko
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STOCKHOLM Åh nej, Bobbie Smith från The Spinners är också borta.

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STOCKHOLM Brittiska begravningar i rocken (del 1).


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STOCKHOLM Jag spelade skivor i tisdags kväll i Lilla Baren på Riche efter ett litet men strålande akustiskt framträdande av Steve Mason. Det var första gången på en smärre evighet men till min smått gränslösa överraskning var det väldigt kul. Här ovan är ett litet axplock av det jag spann. Men tyvärr saknas en av mina absoluta favoriter: Last Dance med Rhye. Hittade inget klipp av den men den finns redan på till exempel Spotify.