1960`s Sweden – A World Arriving from the Outside
There are moments in life that don’t just pass – they imprint themselves. They become starting points. Not always dramatic when they happen, but over time you realize everything began right there. For me, that story begins in 1960s Sweden. A different country than today. A place where the world still arrived from the outside – in waves of music, in tour buses rolling in from England, in amplifiers vibrating against the walls of folk parks and concert halls.
It was a time when music traveled physically. Bands didn’t arrive through algorithms or playlists, but along roads. The Beatles and The Rolling Stones were names echoing across Europe, but to me they were more like background noise. I heard them, of course. But I didn’t really listen. It was as if something inside me was waiting for something else. Something that hadn’t arrived yet.
When Everything Changed – Ummagumma and a New World
And then it came - 1969
Pink Floyd released Ummagumma. A double album that didn’t ask to be understood, but to be experienced. It wasn’t music that followed rules. It was soundscapes. Fragments. Experiments. It felt like someone opened a door into the unknown – and I stepped right through without hesitation.
I didn’t understand everything.
But I felt everything.
That was where it truly began. Not just an interest, but a pull. A curiosity that couldn’t be turned off. A search.
The First Concert – Alone at the Front
That same year, I went to my first concert.
Sweet played in Gothenburg, at Lisebergshallen – a building that no longer exists today, but to me will always remain something almost sacred. My mother took me there. Not all the way, but far enough. To the entrance. That’s where she let me go.
The rest, I had to do on my own.
I remember walking in. The space opening up. Everything feeling larger than me. I made my way to the very front, sat down on a chair, upright, almost ceremonially. As if I instinctively understood this was something important.
And then the lights went out.
Light, Stage, and Shock
It wasn’t like today. No giant LED screens, no computer-controlled lighting rigs. Just a few PAR cans with colored filters. Red. Blue. Yellow. But in that moment, it was everything.
The band stepped on stage.
Makeup. Glitter. Almost unreal.
And I sat there – still, silent, absorbing it all.
It wasn’t just music.
It was a world.
And I stayed in it.
A Lifelong Fascination Takes Shape
It’s strange how certain experiences don’t just shape what you like – they shape what you’re drawn to in life. For me, it wasn’t only the songs that stayed. It was the stage. The light. The movement. How everything interacted. How a simple setup could create something larger than reality itself.
That’s where the fascination was born.
The Concert Years – A Silent Education
The years that followed became a steady stream of concerts. Not a hobby, but a journey. A kind of education, without me knowing it at the time. I saw Led Zeppelin in 1973 – a band that didn’t just play music, but built an entire universe on stage. I saw Alice Cooper in 1975, where the show felt more like theatre than a traditional concert – dark, dramatic, full of details that stayed with you. And many more in between, before and after.
But it was never just about who was on stage.
It was everything around it.
How the rigs looked. How cables were run. How the speakers were placed. How the light fell – sometimes perfectly, sometimes brutally wrong, but always with an effect. I wasn’t just there as an audience member.
I was observing.
And maybe it’s hard to understand today just how different it really was.
A concert back then often lasted thirty minutes. Short. Intense. Almost like an explosion. The band came on, delivered, and disappeared. No encores. No three-hour productions. No layered dramaturgy in the modern sense.
Today, a concert can last three hours. An entire evening. An experience built in layers.
But that’s exactly why there was something raw about the shorter format. Something concentrated. Every minute carried weight. Every song mattered.
And maybe it was that intensity that made everything imprint so deeply.
Every concert became a lesson. Not in music – but in totality. In how to build an experience. How to lead an audience without saying a word. How to create something greater than the sum of its parts.
When the Concert Never Ended
And when the night was over, it didn’t end.
In the evenings after concerts, I could sit for hours. It was as if my body had left the venue, but my mind was still inside. The light kept moving behind my eyelids. The sound lingered – not as volume, but as structure.
I started to draw.
Stages. Angles. Lighting. Perspectives.
I tried to recreate what I had seen – but soon realized that wasn’t enough. I began to change it. Improve it. Stretch it. What if the light came from the side instead? What if the speakers were moved? How do you enhance depth? How do you trick the eye into believing the stage is bigger than it is?
They weren’t just copies.
They were ideas.
I remember drawing thousands of sketches during those years. Page after page. A silent dialogue between what I had experienced and what I had yet to understand. It was my way of continuing the concert long after the last note had faded.
No one asked me to do it.
No one saw it.
From Pencil to 3D – The Same Drive
Today, I do it less often.
And when I do, it’s usually on commission. Not on paper, but in a computer. In 3D. With tools that can simulate light, space, and movement with a precision that would have felt like science fiction back then.
But something has never changed.
The feeling.
It’s still about seeing something before it exists. Building an experience in your mind and then finding a way to make it real. Understanding how technology and emotion meet – and that one never works without the other.
Behind the Magic – The Systems That Hold It Together
That’s when I started to see something many others missed.
Behind the magic were systems.
And that’s what I was drawn to.
It’s easy to romanticize the stage as something spontaneous, something that just happens. But the truth is the opposite. It’s precision. Logistics. Timing. People who know exactly what they’re doing – often without being seen.
And somewhere along the way, I realized that’s where I belonged.
From Audience to Producer
Not necessarily in the spotlight – but in the machinery behind it.
It’s a long way from sitting as a polite boy on a chair at the front, to standing there coordinating what happens on stage. But at the same time, it’s no coincidence. It’s a line. A thread.
A journey that began as a feeling and became a craft.
Building Something That Is Felt
Later in life, when I got to work with productions, stage builds, technology, logistics – everything was already there. Not as knowledge from books, but as something I had carried with me since that night in Lisebergshallen.
I knew how it should feel.
And that might be the most important thing.
Because there are two ways to build a stage production. You can build something that works. Or you can build something that is felt.
The latter requires something more.
Tying the Threads Together
When I look back today at everything I’ve been part of – all the productions, all the meetings with artists, all the hours behind the scenes – there’s a quiet sense of satisfaction. Not as a victory. Not as a goal achieved.
But as confirmation.
There was always a direction.
That boy on the chair wasn’t just watching.
He was learning.
He was building something.
A New Beginning in a New World
And now I stand here again.
Not at an end, but at a new beginning.
A new creative life. In another part of the world. With new people, new projects, new possibilities. But with the same core.
Light. Sound. Stage.
And feeling.
Never Being Finished
It’s easy to think life is about arriving. Reaching a point where you can say, “Now I’m done.” But I’ve never really seen it that way.
Every ending opens something new.
And maybe that’s the freedom.
To not be finished.
The Circle Closes – and Begins Again
Sometimes I think back to that night. How simple it all was. A few lights. A band. A boy on a chair.
And yet it changed everything.
Today, when I help create those moments for others, there’s a quiet respect in it. Because I know what it can mean.
Somewhere out there, in the dark, there might be someone seeing something for the first time. Someone feeling that moment.
And maybe their journey begins right there.
Just like mine did.
Today We Win
And now – here and now – the next chapter begins.
Not with a plan carved in stone, but with direction. With will. With curiosity.
And the same driving force.
To create.
To build.
To feel.
A new day.
New possibilities.
And as I always say:
Today we win.
By Chris...