KENT - VERKLIGEN (1996)

I didn't really "get" Kent's sophomore effort when I listened to it first. I thought the band's eponymous debut album was far better, crackling as it does with raw, horny energy and possessed of an accuracy and edge that I felt Verkligen completely lacked. It also sounded especially sloppy and half-finished, I thought, when compared to what followed it only a year later: Isola, a sumptuous smorgasbord of rich, creamy guitar overdubs that you could lose a small dog inside and all the nihilistic Generation X listlessness you could ever want.

In comparison, Verkligen seemed positively primal with its thin, scrunchy guitars, roomy, lo-fi drums and bare vocals. Even the songs sounded unfinished, seeming like nothing but a collection of b-sides for the album's unhinged monster of a lead single, Kräm (Så Nära Får Ingen Gå).

It should hardly surprise anyone that Kräm was what drew me in, just like it drew in thousands of Swedes back in '96 when it shot Kent into mainstream recognition. It's a heartbreaking burst of a song, scorching through an impressive amount of 90s indie rock hallmarks in its two minutes and forty-two seconds. There's the shamelessly cheesy guitar hook, the quiet/loud dynamic of the verses and earnest pining of the vocals, all sprinkled with generous amounts of the youthful angst that made the first album so great. In short, you have a recipe for a song perfect to holler out of the rolled-down windows of a Volvo blasting through a summer night in Stockholm at a good 110 kph.

On the flipside of Kräm is Gravitation, the second single, echoing Kräm like a slow-witted big brother following lazily in its sibling's footsteps. Its plodding guitar lick somehow manages to be even more cheesy than that of Kräm, tying together a neat little song that takes exactly zero steps off the beaten path. Obviously, you can't really get away with a song this predictable without really laying on the emotion, and Jocke Berg sells it brilliantly, soaring into the refrains with unquestionable gusto.

So, armed with these two singles, Verkligen began to gnaw and nibble at my brain. For the longest time, however, I regarded it as one of the weaker, if not the weakest, Kent album, while later offerings such as 2005's epically gloomy Du & Jag Döden and 2009's blisteringly, mind-numbingly gorgeous Röd satisfied all my Kent needs.

But something about Verkligen's raw, honest charm began to slowly win me over. It's the only album on which Berg's presence as a rhythm guitarist is really felt (The band was between dedicated rhythm guitarists after Martin Roos's departure in '95; Roos would not be replaced by Harri Mänty until 1997.) and it exposes his quietly effective songwriting, like you're seeing blueprints for how the band's music is put together. This also has the effect of making Verkligen feel far more 'live' than any other Kent album. There is almost none of the technological trickery and careful overdubbing that would so characterize their later work. I began to feel that while Verkligen might not necessarily amount to much on its own, it was an important piece in the greater whole that is Kent's impressive catalogue.

And I began to appreciate some of the other songs. Istallet För Ljud's laconic tremolo guitar belies the massive vocal hooks of the refrains, and the desperate angst of 10 Minuter (För Mig Själv) is simple but effective. For some reason, the band has always loathed Verkligen's often-overlooked third single, Halka, but I think it's a real gem, simplicity and directness personified with its unfailingly chipper melodies blasted through noise-ridden guitars and crashing cymbals. Both sides of the album close with lengthy instrumental grooves, simple peons to the irresistible pull of thundering power chords played through amps at top volume.

Many of Verkligen's songs have very similar arrangements and structures, as if the band was making a conscious effort not to complicate things. As a direct result of this simplicity, Verkligen's general atmosphere is that of apathy and a distinct lack of pretense, like a teenager trying a little too hard to convince you it doesn't care what you think.

But it's not just the arrangement and production that create this mood, it's in everything. The songs themselves contribute. Every chord progression and melody on Verkligen has an air of detached resignation, of recognizing the beauty and comfort of a world beyond your control. The lyrics and video to Gravitation paint a horrifying picture of domestic violence, its sad refrains stating "That's how it should be/that's how I want it now," (in Swedish, of course) dismissing the nature of things as being far too entrenched for any real change to be effected. Even the name of the album itself, "Verkligen," translates roughly to "reality," "indeed," or "truly." The album cover, a stark, lavender still-life close-up of a flower in a vase, compounds the band's celebration of imperfection.

And therein, I think, lies the true brilliance of Verkligen: while all of Kent's other albums attempt to be perfect by way of immaculate production and exquisite performances on all instruments, Verkligen's perfection lies in its lackadaisical imperfection. It stands as early proof of Kent's ability to effortlessly master sub-genres that legions of their contemporaries have spent their entire careers coming to grips with, which is itself part of what makes Kent one of the best bands in the world still working today, after ten albums and twenty-three years (even though their latest album, for the most part, sucked shit).

But they're still the best. They're Sweden's best-kept and most entertaining secret, and I love every single one of their albums to death (except for that last one. Sweet Jesus, is it ever awful (except for certain songs)). It just took me a little longer to fall in love with Verkligen, that's all.