spotlight: the tallest man on earth

If someone were to sneak a few of Kristian Matsson's songs onto your iPod, you probably wouldn't recognize exactly what you were getting. The first reason is that the artist would be listed as his stage name, The Tallest Man on Earth. The second is that, despite the Dylan-esque sound, sublime lyricism, and feverish finger plucking of his well-worn acoustic guitar, English isn't even his first language.

This wouldn't be the first instance of an indie outfit trying to justify its sound by suppressing its origins. Take Mumford and Sons as a comparative example. Listening to the rolling banjo, countryish harmonies, and unmistakable southern drawl flavoring lead singer Marcus Mumford's vocals, you'd assume he'd grown up down south playing on front porches in a rocking chair. My Momma always said, "Never assume, lest you make an ass out of u and me," and she'd be right. Born in California, Mumford moved to the UK when he was 6 years old and rose to prominence as part of the West London folk scene. I don't even know what that is, but color me skeptical. What's next? German country? And Mumford is all of 24 years old. His backing band (thankfully) aren't his sons. He simply tacked the last bit on as a tribute to the nepotism of small-time American business. I like the band's sound, I really do, but it lacks the authenticity to be truly great. If I want to hear that kind of music, I'll bring a jug of sweet tea through the screen door and offer a glass to someone whose tunes actually reflect local culture and life experience.

At a cursory listen, you'd assume Matsson's employing the same trick. He readily admits that his musical ambitions were fueled by his love of Dylan, and it's easy to dismiss his work as a Swedish fanboy's take on that well-worn genre. But remember what my Momma said. Look closely at the album cover for his most recent EP, Sometimes the Blues is Just a Passing Bird. That half-liter can of beer is undeniably a Carlsberg, Swedish kroner lay atop the table, and all the electrical sockets are European. If he's trying to conceal his origins, he's doing a damn poor job.

So what accounts for all the pastoral imagery evoked by his tattered voice? Surpisingly, it's his Swedish upbringing. Matsson hails from the small town of Dalarna, and the surrounding landscape probably looks remarkably like that seen through the open window behind his coffee table. Photographed from a more picturesque perspective, it's easy to imagine how life in Dalarna could make one attuned to the great outdoors. It also explains how he could have put in the practice required to become an astonishingly proficient acoustic guitarist (among other instruments): there doesn't appear to be anything else to do.



The best thing about Matsson, though, is his ability to meld talent and experience into a soft, shimmering sonic alloy. The instrumental minimalism is beautifully counterbalanced by the complexity of his arrangements. It's a musical paradox: effortless and impossible at the same time. Nowhere is this better displayed than on "Drying of the Lawns," a track from his second LP, The Wild Hunt. Upon close listen, you'll notice an alternating bass line kept in perfect tempo while higher-pitched triads are plucked on the top strings. I've tried to play along with it, and I'm convinced my hands will decay before they acquire the coordination required to replicate his patterns.

Then there's the lyrics. Scandinavians are notoriously good at English, but I don't know too many native speakers capable of crafting such emotive concepts. Take another song from The Wild Hunt, "Thousand Ways." "I have lived for ages I'm a thousand turns of tides," Matsson sings. "I'm a thousand wakes of springtime and a thousand infant cries." How many people write from God's perspective? How many could better articulate that perspective? "I'll always be blamed for the sun going down on us all," he continues. "But I'm the light in the middle of every man's fall." I could espouse an entire entry detailing the metaphysical implications of that statement. To be fair, some of his phrases occasionally delve into incoherent realms of abstraction, but his ability to cram mountains of meaning into melancholy melodies is, well, monumental.

What Matsson has done here is take the simplest of songwriting, pair it with a geriatric genre, and come out with something that is somehow new and engaging. Rather than mask his background and go faux-folk (I'm looking at you, Mumford), Matsson has integrated his experiences and created an innovative product. Even if his success somehow spawns a "West Sweden folk scene," he'll always be its forefather. As the Tallest Man on Earth, he'll simply peer outward over imitators and off to the mountains beyond.