So where are you going to be lighting for this spring rite of winter passage formally known in Swedish as Valborgsmässoafton?
We’re heading to a small town, Laxne, where probably every stick and worn out piece of furniture gets piled up in a massive mound. The noticeably non-Stockholmish lack of sophistication is in fact a breath of fresh air.
Kids run around in no-name jeans and rubber boots, babies are pushed around in last decade’s prams (not a Bugaboo or Phil and Ted’s buggy in sight), a mom and daughter run the fishing pond/fiskdamm (where children fish for candy) and the most ramshackle family band (our friends) entertains the smattering of townsfolk.
I think we’re invited year in and year out because the hubby is forced, eheh I mean, recruited to play the drums. Well, more accurately, the drum. He’s not a drummer. That should give you an indication of the musical talent gathered.
The motley crew (not in the same league as their namesake, Mötley Crüe) can boast a smidgen of talent; three of its members played in their student orchestra, Osquar Muttar at the Royal Institute of Technology. The hubby played the banjo. You can just imagine writing home about that fine catch of a man I made. And yes, he can play duelling banjos.
Truthfully, I treasure these most authentic of Svensson experiences. They demonstrate a authentic celebration of collective cultural heritage through the simplicity of the neighborly carnival.
And as long as you’re not a music snob, you’d probably get a kick out of the band. Rumor has it they’re hot (well, being so close to the bonfire and all.) So if you have nothing else to do and no where else to be, c’mon down.
Don’t forget to tip the drummer.
