When Studio, the duo of Dan Lissvik and Rasmus Hägg, named their 2006 album West Coast, they weren’t talking about California. Part of the southwest coast of Sweden, where the two lived, in Gothenburg, is an archipelago of more than 20 islands. Some are inhabited year round, with weatherbeaten cabins dotting the craggy landscape.
You can easily travel to the archipelago from Gothenburg’s city center, a simple day trip, one that moves you from the urban to the fantastical in about an hour. Technically, you don’t even leave Gothenburg; the islands are part of the same municipality. It’s easy to imagine Lissvik and Hägg as teenage boys escaping school, riding the ferry, island hopping, writing songs in their head.
Lissvik and Hägg, who met in their early 20s, have said they hoped West Coast would reflect the region’s landscape. But how do you translate such diverse geography, a bustling metropolis whose city limits encompass such breathtaking idyll? With acerbic guitar, funky bass, and the occasional lusty mouth sound. The music, a mix of house, disco, pop, and indie rock, works as both a nod to the desire to escape the confines of the city and a soundtrack for when you make it out.
In the 2000s, Gothenburg, Sweden’s second-largest city, was host to a small scene of musicians making a mix of music similar to Studio, all punching above their weight in terms of international acclaim. Studio were no exception. But their music was idiosyncratic. It was damp, hedonistic, deep. It felt out of time, both familiar and futuristic, as, 19 years later, it still does. In imitating something ancient, they made something eternal.
The album’s thesis statement may be its second song, “West Side,” a track that appears to move at two speeds at once. There is the syrupy bass—thump, thump, thump-thump-thump—contrasted with the feisty guitar. All types of percussion ripple throughout; against a stuttered backbeat, the song is accented with the type of hand drums that elevated the most potent ’70s disco anthems. There is a light electronic flourish, a pleasant echo. Then, about four minutes in, everything comes to a pause. The guitar whispers. This is one of Studio’s few songs with vocals, and you hear Lissvik repeating what could be the band’s motto: “Solid good times.” Is it over? Of course not. The final three minutes are a redoubling of their efforts, the extended coda working as a rejoinder to the idea that too much is never enough.
For all their maximalist instincts, Studio work deftly. The album is like a souffle, many ingredients go into making the final product as light as air. West Coast’s opener, “Out There” is a massive 15-minute track with finely plucked guitar, new wave bass, and simple, incantatory drums that seem like the band’s call to join them on the beach. There are hints of Donna Summer, glistening ’80 prog rock, and also “Hey Mickey.” Take Giorgio Moroder out of Studio 54 and ship him to Scandinavia and you’d be onto something. “Self Service” echoes the Cure by way of weed. “Life’s a Beach,” with its mechanical handclaps, echoes Kraftwerk… by way of weed. It’s dreamy music for people whose dreamworld was conveniently accessible by public transit. It’s music for confident people, people familiar with their fantasy becoming reality.
In addition to West Side, Studio made a number of remixes (collected on the Yearbook 2 compilation). Their biggest swing was with a song by Kylie Minogue, “2 Hearts.” They emptied the track out and replaced the cheesy stuff with acoustic guitars. It’s a tasteful romp, as good as anything they released on their own. Which turned out to be not that much. There are only six songs on West Coast (this reissue of the long out of print album adds six tracks of West Coast-adjacent odds and ends that are interesting to hear for historical context if you’re a nerd, if not really needed) and aside from a collection of remixes, it is their only full length album. The duo seemed to not totally be on the same page—perhaps a touch of tension from two people from the same small place is what created music that has such push and pull. I interviewed the band in 2008, thinking they’d be the next big thing. It was a so-so conversation. “We have a long history of disagreeing,” said Hägg, a foreshadowing of their breakup soon to come.
While traveling a few years later, I made mini-pilgrimage to the Gothenburg archipelago for an afternoon. It was as breathtaking as their music made it seem. It was also largely empty. Some people were setting up for a seafood boil. Across the water, I could see an island uninhabited by humans, but populated by a herd of unshorn sheep grazing lazily by the shore. A privilege to stand as so many others have stood and listen to the waves crashing. While West Coast may have attempted to music interpret the feeling of being by the water, on one song, they just imitated it. “Life’s a Beach” is a literal tribute to the sea; the song ends with the sound of waves crashing. It fades out, but it could have gone on forever.
