There is an unspoken belief embedded in modern life: that to become an artist, to become anything at all, you must leave the countryside that shaped you but seems too modest to contain your ambition. The city promises expansion, and the periphery is framed as a beginning, formative, but ultimately meant to be outgrown.
For Swedish artist Fågelle, the journey has never been that simple.
Emerging from the Nordic experimental music scene, she has built a body of work that resists containment. Her music exists in the tension between fragility and force, structure and collapse, clarity and distortion. Delicate melodic lines unfold into towering orchestral swells, distorted guitars grind against broken electronics, and unruly percussion fractures beneath luminous, searching vocals. Her voice can feel both intimate and feral—hovering on the edge between hymn and howl. All of this creates an atmosphere that’s immersive, textural, and ritualistic.
With her return to Sweden's southwestern coastal province of Halland, the rural region where she grew up, Fågelle shifts both method and vantage point. Rather than nostalgia or romanticism, she calls this move reclamation—a deliberate refusal of the idea that cultural relevance belongs only to urban centers.
Her new album, Bränn min jord ("Burn My Soil"), is grounded in place without being confined by it. Field recordings from forests, community halls, and youth spaces intertwine with the low thrum of night air, a passing car's bass rattling its frame, and wooden floors resonating beneath a dancer's steps.
The result is a meditation on belonging and perspective—how identity sharpens through distance, how destruction and renewal exist side by side. Burning the soil is not an act of erasure but of preparation.
In this conversation, Fågelle reflects on the courage required to step away from prescribed artistic paths and the clarity that can follow. The album becomes both a sonic study of landscape and a deeper inquiry into home, something consciously shaped in the present.
Arina Korenyu: What did you feel you needed to reclaim upon your return to Halland?
Fågelle: This dynamic exists in many places—the tension between the countryside and the cities. I felt I had to leave my rural home in order to become something, to make something of my life.
When I moved to Gothenburg, I realized that many people don't think the countryside matters at all. You can start to internalize that belief. That's something I've been grappling with on this record. What does it do to you when the places and people who shaped you seem to be dismissed by society? I know many people care about the countryside, but it doesn't hold the same status. It's seen as peripheral, off to the side. But in my life, it's central.
That's the conflict. Returning and rediscovering the area, meeting new people, and seeing it from a new perspective felt like coming full circle. It was healing. It felt honest, like leaning into who I am instead of distancing myself from where I come from. On a personal level, it was very meaningful.
Arina: Was there resistance or discomfort in coming back to a place you once knew you had to leave?
Fågelle: I think I came back at the right time. I had built a foundation for myself first. I needed that before I could return. Sometimes I worry that coming back will make me irrelevant—and that's part of the larger issue. Why should it?
There's a great, slightly strange community of people creating things here. Still, that fear tugs at me. But I want to be brave in how I live and in how I make music. When something feels uniquely right for me, that's the direction I should follow. I believe that's what leads to the most interesting and authentic work.
Arina: How has your relationship with Halland changed since you first moved away?
Fågelle: When I lived there, I didn't feel particularly connected to it. I think that's common. You're shaped by a place, but you don't see it because you're part of it. Once you leave, you begin to understand how deeply it formed you.
I imagine it like a rubber band tied to my roots. The further away I go, the stronger the pull back. When I'm in Germany, I feel more Swedish. When I visited the U.S., I felt extremely European. You understand yourself in relation to other places.
Distance gave me perspective. When you move away, it's easy to generalize. But coming back, I see how different one village is from another, each with its own culture and history. Nothing is ever just one thing. It's easy to be nostalgic from afar and hold onto a simplified version. It's more interesting to return and experience the place as it actually is now, complex and changed.
Arina: How does memory live in the land for you—in sounds, textures, or otherwise?
Fågelle: One important moment on the album was recording a car driving past, blasting a remix of one of the songs. I asked myself, “What does the countryside sound like?” For me, it's mostly quiet. Then suddenly there's this car—the bass vibrating, the metal rattling as it passes and fades into the night.
That felt like a perfect representation of my countryside: young people trying to create something. The energy can feel destructive, but it needs somewhere to go. When there isn't much happening, that energy finds its form. You hear it in those cars, bouncing with music.
There are also brass bands and choirs that have been playing for decades in churches and community halls. They're amateurs, but they're devoted. Sweden has a strong choir culture, and I love that. The hymns sung at school concerts aren't about religion for me; they're about the spaces, the buildings, the shared experience.
I've also spent a lot of time in the forests—recording and singing there. That connection is deeply important to me.
Arina: Bränn min jord references burning soil to allow new life to grow. What personal upheavals or transformations does that metaphor hold for you?
Fågelle: Leaving the city was a big upheaval, burning the idea of myself as someone who lives a city life. I may live in a city again. Even so, letting go of that identity was significant.
I also went through the end of some important relationships. I questioned how I've been living and working at a very deep level. I was trying to return to something essential while also searching for something entirely new, musically and personally.
Arina: How do destruction and renewal coexist in the music of the record?
Fågelle: There's beauty in things that are falling apart, like buildings on the brink of collapse. That fragile moment between two states fascinates me.
Musically, I look for that edge: a beat almost breaking down, a note almost turning into noise, harmony just on the verge of dissolving. I'm drawn to that nearly broken space. It's a constant creative ground for me.
Arina: You worked closely with Halland’s musicians, dancers, and residents. How did involving the community reshape the album?
Fågelle: You can have a vision, but you must stay open to what's actually there. Working with Nathalie Ruiz, the dancer, we recorded in a community hall with wooden floors. I recorded the room while she moved to early sketches of the songs. She became like a percussionist through movement. You could hear the space in the sound. She inspired the album deeply, and you can hear her on "Innan malen hittat in" and "Bränn min jord."
Petter Eriksson, who co-produced and mixed the record, became an essential collaborator. We even recorded twenty-four continuous hours in a community space. It felt almost spiritual.
In rural Sweden, there aren't many gathering places—no pub or café culture. So we opened this space for a full day and invited people in for coffee, conversation, and to leave messages in a "time capsule." It sparked discussions about the past, the future, and what it means to live there.
That's how I met Amanda Zoric Wikholm (voice on "Stigen"). She spoke about a forest path near her home. When it gets muddy, signs tell you not to leave the path, but sometimes you have to, because it's impassable. She said, "Maybe you have to leave the path to find your way home." That stayed with me. As an artist, there's this idea of where you're supposed to be. But maybe taking a different path is what leads you back to yourself.
I also met Samuel Reitmaier aka DAYDREAMER, who created a beautiful EDM remix of "Det blev våra liv." Just amazing, unexpected people.
Arina: Do you feel a responsibility when working with regional traditions, or complete freedom?
Fågelle: I don't come from a folk background, and I wouldn't claim to work within a strict tradition. That would feel false. There isn't a strong, protected folk tradition here that I could disrespect, so I feel quite free.
I did include a very old local melody I found through library research. It's obscure—not something widely known. In a way, it's sad that there aren't more people actively protecting regional music. But for me, that means freedom.
Arina: How did recording in places like community halls, forests, and youth spaces affect the performances?
Fågelle: A lot. Singing alone in the forest, with only crows watching, is very different from being in a studio. It's not always easy to capture the sound technically, and there's also clean studio audio on the album. It's not purely conceptual.
But living with the songs in different places was essential. Bringing them into forests, halls, and outdoor spaces kept the record from feeling sterile. Each room leaves a trace.
Arina: What did working at Studio Folkhemmet in Unnaryd bring out sonically or emotionally?
Fågelle: It's a special place deep in the forest, with a studio built from stacked logs. There's a strong sense of community there—musicians, environmental workers, creative people sharing kitchens and workspaces.
I recorded piano, keys, and drums there over several days. It allowed me to focus. Even though those recordings are clean, the room has a slightly dry, wooden, almost church-like sound. You can hear that calm atmosphere in the music.
Arina: Has your definition of "home" changed through making this album?
Fågelle: Absolutely. A place is just a place until you build connections. Making this album helped me form real relationships. I reached out to people in small village Facebook groups, asked questions, and started conversations. Without that focus, I wouldn't have done that.
Home isn't about returning to a teenage version of reality. That wouldn't interest me. It's about being here in a new way, true to who I am now.
Arina: What do you hope listeners take away from this record?
Fågelle: Everyone will take something different. Language will matter. But I hope it feels exciting and new, and that listeners sense a specific place—a taste or smell of it.
I think people around the world can relate to loving places that aren't culturally valued. I hope it makes them reflect on their own roots. And honestly, I hope they simply enjoy the music.
Big cities often have the power to elevate culture. I want the music to reach people, but even if it doesn't widely, that's okay. What matters to me is doing something that only I could do in this place. I could be one more electronic musician in Berlin, or I could create something meaningful in my home region. That feels important.
Arina: After making this album, what feels unresolved? What still burns beneath the soil?
Fågelle: It feels like the beginning. There's already a domino effect—new connections, new projects. I'm now working on a dance piece with Nathalie about silence and movement.
There's much more to come. This is just the start.
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