Of Swedish Origin.

So I am here. Alone amongst strangers in a place owned by some guy named Richard (Richard's on Richards). In my own head, listening for a pulse, in time with the music coming through the speakers overhead. It's almost African-esque with it's syncopated rhythms and off kilter baselines. I like it. My Gin and Tonic is in a tall glass tonight, stretching it out that little bit further, for a fast drinker, it'll have to suffice. I hear snippets of conversations, some very ordinary and I digress, to others, of smoking being looked down upon, of student loans, and moving to new places to make one feel alive. The room is finally becoming more full, a loud hummmm is rolling over me, slow anticipation, as words flow out of people, pause lightly over me, and move on to a new host. The lights are purple in colour, Red EXIT signs over each accessible door, and some not so accessible. They lie.
Maybe we are to be trapped in this dimly lit world forever.
Then the music changes to live... as a man stands on the stage... his quiet presence along with his music seems to be putting people to sleep. I watch. And listen.
And soon he is finished, the crowd around me pushes in closer, like a herd of animals trying to fight off the Cold Swedish Winter.
He was only the support. Then we see who we have been waiting for and the atmosphere changes from a sluggish appreciation to fearsome screams.
He greets everyone, somehow making it personal to the individuals that make up the sea of faces. And then bang, he's straight into his set.
As the time progresses, he has the crowd sing harmony with him. The grin on his face making everyone sing that bit louder.
An encore is not in question, as soon as he steps off the stage, the crowd goes into a dramatic fit, yelling and screaming and stomping feet, how the tables have turned. Quiet talking is of the past.
And he delivers. He comes back out, with that same grin of recognition and graciousness for such an appeasing audience. And then the night comes to a close, and the big men in outfits of SECURITY tell us to leave. But he promised to come back and talk to us. He promised.
And everyone is standing their ground to the Security, who are agitated to say the least. And with that we see he's well dressed lanky figure emerge from the back door. And he talks and hugs and thanks us for making his evening there a wonderful one.

But in return we say: "Thank you O Music Man of Swedish Origin for making our night."

If You Ever Need A Stranger (To Sing At Your Wedding)

Ask Jens.