The Son Of History

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Magnusson arrived from Fjörnebö The airport of a mystical Swedish island. People in a hurry drag their heavy suitcases on wheels behind them and speak unintelligible languages in their cellphones, which they keep pinched between the neck and the left ear. A Babel of tongues fills the space and everyone tries to look as sophisticated as possible. From the speakers they hear the tin sound of a new music sensation, the perfect soundtrack for such alienating scenery. The attentive listener pauses. Discerns flashes of mellow jazz, soft synthesizer-notes and chilled-out beats. The French smile proudly and whisper: 'C'est Air…' Immediately they are being rebuked by fat-bellied Yanks: 'Let me tell you somethin': That's definitely Charlie Parker playin' the trumpet there…' A fast-growing international assemblage interfere with the debate and promote their national heroes. In the smokers' lounge Martijn Groeneveld has found a place at the window. It's a common ritual to him, it's nothing different from everyday life in his Mailmen studio. Like leaving and arriving planes, projects come and go. There are other projects at stake, like his own trippy techno act Swiss Transport. There are other bands waiting to be produced, like the next album of 21st century singer-songwriter J. Perkin. The gathering around the speaker draws his attention. Instantly he realizes what this fuss must be about. Two Dutch studio rats are responsible for the excitement that takes place on this little island

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