What to do when you find yourself having done all that it takes to make a strange place (Sweden) your home, and you sit there by your abandoned piano, clutching your stolen 4-track, and it all washes over you. The faces you have left behind and the ones you have learned to love, the scents and stenches of your past and present, the sound of an unintelligible language that no one in their right mind would ever care to understand drowning out the stinging lullabies of the kid with scraped knees and a prematurely toughened heart you once were.
What then? You put it in songs, my dears. You make your guitar scream out the words you can't, you let that old piano do your crying and you chew your knuckles bloody out of joy, out of desire, out of sorrow and of rage, and you do it like Dag för Dag, day by day.