Backengrillen

Well. This one didn’t exactly go to plan.

I sat down to write a review for Backengrillen — and promptly ended up deep-diving the entire back catalogue of a completely different band. Standard behaviour, really.

Turns out, just listening to this album? That worked. Sort of. But it didn’t bring words—it brought question marks.

A lot of "huh?", "interesting…", and "what in the actual hell?"

So I did what any normal person does when confused by free-form death jazz: I started researching.

Backengrillen.

Sounds weird when you say it with a German accent. Might sound weird in Swedish too, but I choose to believe it makes sense there. Whatever. I’d never heard of this group before. Of course I hadn’t—it’s brand new. Formed at the very end of 2025 by Dennis Lyxzén, Magnus Flagge, and David Sandström – parts of the final line-up of Swedish hardcore punk band Refused – joined by Mats Gustafsson, a ridiculously talented, award-winning free jazz musician who plays saxophone, fluteophone, flute and clarinet like his very soul's on the line.

Refused played their last-ever show on 21 December 2025 in their hometown of Umeå. And more or less in the same breath announced this new project. And so, 2026 opens with Backengrillen. A new band. A new album. And a concept so off-the-rails it might actually work.

According to the promo sheet, the whole thing was written on a Thursday during their first rehearsal, performed live on a Friday, and recorded on Saturday. Three. Days. No notes.

The description promises "raw, stupid, gut instinct music" played by "seasoned purveyors of hardcore punk, metal, free jazz, noise, et cetera." Also— "antifascist, antiracist free-form death-jazz" arriving with "new perspectives on jazz. And punk. In-your-face HC jazz."

Well. Yes. That is—certainly a lot.

Even the promo agency sent it to me with the warning:

"Aber Obacht: schweeere Kost…"

No kidding.

But I wouldn’t be me if I shied away from things I don’t understand, would I?

In my experience?

If you listen often enough and dig deep enough, it’ll grind you down eventually.

You just need enough cuts for it to sink into your bloodstream.

If you let it—it will.

I’ve had this album since the end of November. About six weeks now. I’ve spun it a fair amount of times—especially in the background, while working. Oddly enough, it helps me focus. Maybe it’s the looseness of the jazz structures, the improvisation, the rambling—it lets my thoughts ramble too.

But the moment you try to really listen, to hold it still and analyse it—that’s when the album starts fighting back. Because honestly, I don’t think it wants to be analysed. I was treading open water a bit.

And when in doubt? Revert to research.

So I did. And fell straight into the Refused rabbit hole.

I did not know Refused. Never heard of them.

But apparently they helped shape modern punk and rock quite a bit.

They started out as your standard-issue Swedish hardcore band—and then things escalated. Fast. 

Genres? Discarded. Structures? Optional.

The politics? Far-left and unmissable.

Naturally, I was intrigued.

Backengrillen kicks off with A Hate Inferior—obviously a brilliant title, and also the first single. It’s the track that convinced me to request this promo in the first place. Still my favourite. Ten minutes long. Total fever dream.

It starts with static. The kind that makes you double-check your headphones. Then the guitar kicks in with one motif. And just… keeps going. Again. And again. And again.

They did warn me in the promo sheet: "the idea is to take a death/doom or noiserock riff, play it until it loses meaning, and then break it apart like a ravenous cat would a tiny forest mouse."

So yeah. It’s that. Repetition into oblivion. The drums join in. There’s an organ-ish wheeze. Then the saxophone. (You know I’m a sucker for saxophone. Maladie Week, anyone? Don’t get me started.)

Vocals only show up at around the 3:30 mark—distorted screams, very unpleasant, very effective. The track loops and screeches and rasps and drones until it becomes immersive. You find yourself swaying along without realising it. That’s what I meant earlier—the music is loose, and if you let it, it’ll shake something loose in you too. The voice warbles. The saxophone screeches. There are whoops. At some point they stops pretending it's a song altogether. Gustafsson absolutely goes off on that sax. Just noises. Full improvisation chaos. And then Lyxzén screams again and weirdly—we’re back. Relaxing, actually. I swear.

Then comes Dör för långsamt, which is—let's be honest—twelve minutes of noise and flute panic. It is weird. And fully owns it. It opens with off-key breathy flute nonsense, panting, moaning, weird sounds that might be a man hyperventilating into a recorder. Honestly, the first few minutes feel medically questionable. Drums join in eventually, but only make things worse. The flute gets more erratic. One fears for the man’s oxygen levels.  Four minutes in, the band seems to remember they’re here to make music and things sort of—come together? We get clean vocals! Actual singing! It’s weirdly rock-ish — for about thirty seconds. Then we’re back to animalistic shouts and jazz-spiral madness. No real lyrics, just "Dör för långsamt" on repeat. Dying too slowly. Accurate. You need a very specific mood for this track. If you’re not in it, you’ll be massaging your temples, muttering "For heaven’s sake, just come to the point."

Repeater II is a bit easier on the nervous system. Six minutes, and far more punk in attitude. The bass is right up front and does a stellar job of keeping things together while the sax goes off and the vocals alternate between singing, whooping, and feral barking. It sounds like four guys in a room having an extremely chaotic good time. Tossing motifs at each other, building on them, twisting them, breaking them apart again. At some point, you give up on structure and just vibe. It’s oddly soothing.

Then comes the title track, Backengrillen. Another ten-minute piece, starting with flutes, subtle drums, and bass—almost as abstract and chaotic as track two. I think there’s a sneeze in it. Can’t be sure. There’s definitely some grunting. But then—somewhere in the middle—the track settles into itself. Like it suddenly remembers it had a destination. We get melody. Singing. The repetition becomes obsessive, deliberate, almost ritualistic. And it works. It pulls you in and melts your brain just enough for you to surrender.

We end with Socialism or Barbarism. Another near-ten-minute dense chunk of chaos. We start, naturally, with static. Buzzing. Scratching. And by now, you don’t even question it. Static has become a trusted companion. Background noise for your morning coffee. By the three-minute mark, the static is joined by free-form drumming, then bass, then sax—and something vaguely song-shaped starts to emerge from the chaos. Not quite a structure. But structure-adjacent. Lyxzén lets loose—shouting, hiccupping, crooning, whooping, hollering. It’s completely unhinged. And then we’re back to static. Again. And that’s the end.

You are being released from an album that is—a lot. Weird. Expressive. Unsettling. Depending on your mood, it might make you mad. Might give you a headache. Or—if the stars align just right—it might set you vibing. It might strike a chord in you that’s somehow tuned to the same "I don’t give a shit" frequency this whole project operates on.

Backengrillen aren’t trying to prove anything. To anyone.

There’s a very clear energy of: we’re doing this because we can—and we’re actually fucking great at it.

And honestly? I’m into it.

Like I said: I’ve listened to this album a fair amount by now. It works surprisingly well as background noise. Not because it doesn’t deserve full attention — but because when I’m only half-listening, my walls are permeable enough to let the energy sink in.

Curious to hear which approach works for you.

Don’t overthink it. Just chuck it on. Let it rattle something loose.

And when it does—and it will—come scream at me about it. I’ll be here, probably still listening to track two and questioning my life choices.

Now go.

Shoo.

Put it on.

Let the static in.