They say that if you remember the sixties you weren’t really there (maaan!) Well, now you don’t have to try to image what that era might have been like as Pale Blue Hours sounds exactly how I want the soundtrack to that decade to sound. But not the perky, hi-fashion, swinging sixties that has been so well documented in the media archives, this is the sound of the underground, the parallel line to the usual direction of travel.
This is the sound of being comatose on a Persian rug wrapped in a drug fug in the basement of a Ladbroke Grove squat in about 1966. The sounds are warm and exotic, psychedelic and full of otherness, they rub shoulders with the acid laced sound of West Coast acts such as The Doors and Jefferson Airplane and wash over you like the musky smoke from a hookah pipe.
This is not the sound you associate with modern Sweden, but then in this age of global communication and unrestricted access to the archives of the music past, music and ideas belong to wherever those references resonate with creative travellers irrespective of geography and chronology and that is, of course, as it should be.