Album Review: Backengrillen - Backengrillen

Backengrillen don’t give a fuck if you like them. Or if you don’t. Or if you “get it.” It sounds harsh, but they really do not care. Because this self-titled debut isn’t about you. It’s not even about them. It’s about us. It is the channelling of collective anguish focused through a lens forged from genres known for abrasive predilections. And it’s glorious.

Staunchly anti-fascist, anti-racist, and anti-anything oppugnant to basic human decency, this politically loaded ideology shouldn’t surprise anyone familiar with the personnel. But for the uninitiated, history is vital to context.

Our four players, all hailing from the Swedish province of Västerbotten, have a long-standing relationship with confrontational music designed to challenge the listener. Three of them—Dennis Lyxzén (vocals/effects), Magnus Flagge (bass), and David Sandström (drums/electronics)—are key members of post-hardcore icons Refused. Their 1998 genre classic The Shape of Punk to Come dragged post-hardcore kicking and screaming into the modern era. While peers like At the Drive-In were instantly celebrated, Refused’s brazen approach—downtuned guitars, jazz breakdowns, and techno interludes—initially baffled critics and enraged purists, selling fewer than 1,500 copies in its first year. It was simply too ahead of its time.

The fourth member is the incomparable free jazz composer and multi-instrumentalist Mats Gustafsson. A lifelong friend of Dennis, his oeuvre is a vast landscape of experimentation. From his incredible Fire! Orchestra project to collaborations with Sonic Youth, The Ex, and the late Steve Albini, Gustafsson’s genre-polymath credentials are beyond reproach.

Now that we understand the players’ unwillingness to compromise, let’s talk about the project. A maelstrom of death-jazz, noise, and poetry, it is a cacophonous record composed almost entirely in single, improvised takes. The band convened in a rehearsal space on a Thursday; the album was written in that first intense session, played live on Friday, and recorded on Saturday.

Opener “A Hate Inferior” is a statement of intent. A lurching behemoth of doom, discordant bass, and thunderous drums, it features Lyxzén’s howling vocals—just as emotive now as they’ve ever been. Structured with a syncopation not dissimilar to a military march, Backengrillen are going to war.

Moving into “Dör för långsamt,” the atmosphere darkens. The saxophone sounds like it is trying to tear itself apart before being swapped for furious, around-the-kit bursts of improvised chaos. With stream-of-consciousness poetry half-crooned, half-barked throughout, it recalls the work of bands like Mamaleek or even Can.

“Repeater II” is the most structured track on the album—though I use that word loosely. It’s a bass-led, six-minute stomp of punk swagger. With its refrain of “Repeat history! Repeat mistakes! Repeat the waaaaaars!” one can’t help but hear Fugazi decrying “Give me the cure!” It’s a riotous time that a bold DJ could get away with spinning in a sweaty basement club.

The ten-minute opus “Backengrillen” is a more sombre affair. With the rhythm section keeping things metronomic beneath Gustafsson’s agitated sax, it is perhaps the album's only weakness; the composition threatens to tip over into thrilling chaos yet never quite does. It highlights the inherent risks of writing and recording an album in three days, though remains a fascinating listen.

Closer “Socialism or Barbarism”—a nod to Rosa Luxemburg—is appropriately barbaric. A yawp of caterwauling saxophone squeals and walls of distortion, it serves as a howl of rage into the maelstrom of shit swirling around our heads as we are forced to swallow more propaganda and AI deception.

When Backengrillen’s debut finally comes to rest, you’ll either be enraptured or repelled. You will either spin it again immediately or never hear another note. If, like me, you’re the former, there is good news: they’re already working on more death-jazz chaos.