It seems baffling that a songwriter as adept as Stockholm’s Simon Stålhamre, the gentleman behind Small Feet, is only now releasing his first record. Things apparently don’t get finished when one’s interest is always sprinting to the next experiment, and Stålhamre’s stumble towards discovery began around the time he was 15, when he decided to quit school. Though he was – and remains – possessed of a natural intelligence and a gift for music, he was also shuffling a pack of demons that provoked an increasingly reclusive lifestyle. So, instead of attending school, he employed TV as his academic mentor – learning English from the American shows that dominated his small country’s schedules – while, all the time, building up a catalogue of songs.
Though his virtual substitute teacher somehow provided him with the wherewithal to synthesise Salvador Dali landscapes, a linguist’s laughing diction, a note on free will, and various social jabs into his compositions, the spectres that haunted him ensured that the tapes he made of his songs were kept stored in a closet at his parents’ home. Blessed with twin talents from an early age, Stålhamre’s propensity for vanishing acts tended to overcome his flair for songwriting: whatever wonders he’d conjured up in his isolation seemed destined to remain hidden. By the time he met Jacob Snavely – an ex-pat American musician with whom he shared friends and who started to nudge Stålhamre toward focusing more energy on his songs – the Swede had spent time as a nurse, a fly-poster and a café worker, and was about to enrol in a course to become a city bus driver.
Listen to “Rivers” https://soundcloud.com/small-feet/rivers