a
Tanktop of
the Pops
Leaders of the rebirth of wool. Purveyors of fleecy listening. James Anderson unbuttons The Cardigans.
So how on earth do Malmo's yoof avoid yawning themselves to death? They simply form The Cardigans and become internationally successful pop stars. In the process - along with the bonkers Wannadies and indie contenders Grass-Show and Whale - The Cardigans have rescued their country's reputation for spawning not but ropey Euro-pop combos. Abba might be bearable fodder for beered-up student bops, but Roxette and Ace Of Base can hardly be described as pushing back the postmodern boundaries. "Ace Of Base say they prefer playing other countries because Swedish critics don't respect them," Magnus Cardigan recently observed. "But no one respects them." Harsh, but fair.
We converge on an outdoor restaurant where the woollen wonders are lunching on hearty platters of sushi, noodles and miso soup, though they manage to tear their tastebuds away long enough to shake hands and say hello. Scoffing, it later becomes clear, features highly on their rock'n'roll agenda. I'm tempted to place a paper doggy bag on my head, for The Cardigans are a ravishing bunch make no mistake.
They've just got back from a hectic tour with Beck ("he should actually be punished for being so nice," chuckles Magnus, 25, the bassist and chatty one), been out all night on the piss, had bugger-all kip, and yet still come up a peachy-skinned treat.
Despite the visit from Mister Furry Tongue, breathy 22-year-old vocalist Nina looks every inch the babe, bedecked from flaxen head to twinkly toe in black, and hiding her denim-blue eyes behind widescreen shades. "I came home one hour ago," she confess es wearily, sparking up the first of many fags. "I didn't even brush my teeth!" She's obviously none-too-precious about her status as an indie pop pin-up.
Which indeed they are. And very obviously a gang of closely-knit (sorry) mates. Because before the big time ding-donged the doorbell, enabling them to purchase individual abodes, they all shared a home together here in swinging Malmo. "Well, it's bigger than Jonkopping, the town where we grew up," explains Peter (23, guitarist, the other chatty one and owner of a newly-dyed ginger barnet), "and there is a recording studio here which meant we wouldn't have to travel all the time, so we got a house."
"We were all unemployed, except Magnus, and very short of money for two years," adds Nina. "We had to call the student unions and ask for concerts so we could pay the rent." Opinions are divided as to the grimness of this domestic situation. Lars-Olof (24, keyboardist and the very, very quiet one) declares it, "Heaven and hell!" Peter insists it was. "Very good, pretty fun." Bengt (24, drummer and the virtually silent one) looks bemused. Nina simply guf-faws, remembering the many rows over whose turn it was to do the washing up. Sort of This Life with jangly guitars, really.
Having triumphantly unleashed their first album, Emmerdale (they hotly deny liking the soap it was named after), upon Sweden, then wowing the UK with Life and First Band On The Moon, it wasn't long before fans were offering to do their dishes. So, what is a typical Cardigan-ite like? "Mostly, of course, it's the pop crowd - the 15 to 25-year-olds," offers Nina, pouring herself a reviving muddy-black coffee. "We have people of our parents' ages as well," says Peter. "We probably remind them of the music they were into when they grew up..."
In Japan, meanwhile, there's a brisk trade in Nina dolls. "I haven't actually seen one myself," she says, aghast. "So I hope it's not true. All this business in Japan is pretty kinky." Most worryingly of all, greasy-locked headbangers doing what the band call "devil signs" have been attending their gigs. But that's simply due to The Cardigans' penchant for Black Sabbath cover versions (blame Peter - a closet metal mutha).
Since Lovefool appeared on the Romeo And Juliet soundtrack, it's rarely been off the radio - it was officially the most played tune in the States for two months and here for almost as long. Glittery yet yearningly desperate, its Nina-penned, infuriatingly-catchy refrain, "Love me, love me, say that you love me," got under everyone's skin, from Top Shop punters to ageing milkmen.
But surely The Cardigans are lucky in love? "I'm amazed by all the crazy things people do in a relationship, or to get a relationship," Nina ventures cryptically. "How a very clever person can turn so stupid, the things you do to yourself..." She laughs. The others fidget nervously. "Well, I wouldn't say so generally..." whispers Peter coyly. "We have relationships but it's very difficult because we're away so much..." He trails off. "I'm pretty lucky!" pipes up Bengt suddenly. Bless him.
So when life on the road gets too much, Malmo offers a welcome respite. Nobody gawps, points or pounces for autographs. "If we were in Stockholm, people might recognise us as they're more media-aware, but people here are too civilised and con-trolled," sniffs Nina.
"We live in a small world." Magnus decides. "It's a bit boring really," concludes Peter. Still, at least it's home Swede home, huh?
The southern Swedish city of Malmo's a funny old place, An airport resembling a branch on Ikea. Streets cleaner than an army colonel's boots. Shoals of restaurants serving fish on a bed of fish with a fish sauce. How can we put this politely? It's less than thrill-packed. Everyone looks healthy, no one looks poor. Even at night the streets are deserted, save the occasional passing Volvo.
So how on earth do Malmo's yoof avoid yawning themselves to death? They simply form The Cardigans and become internationally successful pop stars. In the process - along with the bonkers Wannadies and indie contenders Grass-Show and Whale - The Cardigans have rescued their country's reputation for spawning not but ropey Euro-pop combos. Abba might be bearable fodder for beered-up student bops, but Roxette and Ace Of Base can hardly be described as pushing back the postmodern boundaries. "Ace Of Base say they prefer playing other countries because Swedish critics don't respect them," Magnus Cardigan recently observed. "But no one respects them." Harsh, but fair.
We converge on an outdoor restaurant where the woollen wonders are lunching on hearty platters of sushi, noodles and miso soup, though they manage to tear their tastebuds away long enough to shake hands and say hello. Scoffing, it later becomes clear, features highly on their rock'n'roll agenda. I'm tempted to place a paper doggy bag on my head, for The Cardigans are a ravishing bunch make no mistake.
They've just got back from a hectic tour with Beck ("he should actually be punished for being so nice," chuckles Magnus, 25, the bassist and chatty one), been out all night on the piss, had bugger-all kip, and yet still come up a peachy-skinned treat.
Despite the visit from Mister Furry Tongue, breathy 22-year-old vocalist Nina looks every inch the babe, bedecked from flaxen head to twinkly toe in black, and hiding her denim-blue eyes behind widescreen shades. "I came home one hour ago," she confess es wearily, sparking up the first of many fags. "I didn't even brush my teeth!" She's obviously none-too-precious about her status as an indie pop pin-up.
Which indeed they are. And very obviously a gang of closely-knit (sorry) mates. Because before the big time ding-donged the doorbell, enabling them to purchase individual abodes, they all shared a home together here in swinging Malmo. "Well, it's bigger than Jonkopping, the town where we grew up," explains Peter (23, guitarist, the other chatty one and owner of a newly-dyed ginger barnet), "and there is a recording studio here which meant we wouldn't have to travel all the time, so we got a house."
"We were all unemployed, except Magnus, and very short of money for two years," adds Nina. "We had to call the student unions and ask for concerts so we could pay the rent." Opinions are divided as to the grimness of this domestic situation. Lars-Olof (24, keyboardist and the very, very quiet one) declares it, "Heaven and hell!" Peter insists it was. "Very good, pretty fun." Bengt (24, drummer and the virtually silent one) looks bemused. Nina simply guf-faws, remembering the many rows over whose turn it was to do the washing up. Sort of This Life with jangly guitars, really.
Having triumphantly unleashed their first album, Emmerdale (they hotly deny liking the soap it was named after), upon Sweden, then wowing the UK with Life and First Band On The Moon, it wasn't long before fans were offering to do their dishes. So, what is a typical Cardigan-ite like? "Mostly, of course, it's the pop crowd - the 15 to 25-year-olds," offers Nina, pouring herself a reviving muddy-black coffee. "We have people of our parents' ages as well," says Peter. "We probably remind them of the music they were into when they grew up..."
In Japan, meanwhile, there's a brisk trade in Nina dolls. "I haven't actually seen one myself," she says, aghast. "So I hope it's not true. All this business in Japan is pretty kinky." Most worryingly of all, greasy-locked headbangers doing what the band call "devil signs" have been attending their gigs. But that's simply due to The Cardigans' penchant for Black Sabbath cover versions (blame Peter - a closet metal mutha).
Since Lovefool appeared on the Romeo And Juliet soundtrack, it's rarely been off the radio - it was officially the most played tune in the States for two months and here for almost as long. Glittery yet yearningly desperate, its Nina-penned, infuriatingly-catchy refrain, "Love me, love me, say that you love me," got under everyone's skin, from Top Shop punters to ageing milkmen.
But surely The Cardigans are lucky in love? "I'm amazed by all the crazy things people do in a relationship, or to get a relationship," Nina ventures cryptically. "How a very clever person can turn so stupid, the things you do to yourself..." She laughs. The others fidget nervously. "Well, I wouldn't say so generally..." whispers Peter coyly. "We have relationships but it's very difficult because we're away so much..." He trails off. "I'm pretty lucky!" pipes up Bengt suddenly. Bless him.
So when life on the road gets too much, Malmo offers a welcome respite. Nobody gawps, points or pounces for autographs. "If we were in Stockholm, people might recognise us as they're more media-aware, but people here are too civilised and con-trolled," sniffs Nina.
"We live in a small world." Magnus decides. "It's a bit boring really," concludes Peter. Still, at least it's home Swede home, huh?