Rebecka Reinhard

My parents met in Skellefteå, a small city just north of Umeå on the outer fringes of the Arctic Circle, although they had relocated to a suburb of Stockholm by the time I was born. My father was a music obsessive and taught jazz and classical music and at the age of fourteen, I picked up one of his nylon-string guitars and never looked back. A year later, I had my first electric guitar and had formed my first band – they called us disgusting punks – although I admit now the band spent much of our rehearsal room downtime lying down together on the floor in complete darkness whilst playing Fake Plastic Trees.


Subsequently, a stint at music-college – where I put together a Deerhoof covers band as a fuck you to the Toto Appreciation Society that prevailed at the time – coincided with a stint of self-doubt which itself inspired a move to Paris.


My dad had just given me his old Ibanez George Benson hollow-body semi-acoustic jazz guitar, a gift that helped me find my muse and write a bunch of sad ass songs in my bedroom and perform a few acoustic shows in bars. That guitar is my baby. I’ve written most of my songs with it and I just love the warmth and stability of its sound. I think a lot of my folky stuff is partly inspired by it and some of the plucky songs wouldn’t have come to me on a Telecaster.

After leaving Paris, I moved to Gothenburg where I performed as a singer/songwriter with friends – adding harmonies, melodica and a second guitar – and began to hear drums and bass-lines and more and more layers and eventually the songs felt a little too raw and naked without all this instrumentation I could hear inside my head.


However, it wasn’t until I relocated to London in 2014 where everything fell into place and I encountered the enthusiasm and appreciation of new music I was clearly craving. It felt so easy, you met someone and the next day you were in a band. In Spring 2018, I left London for Stockholm but by summer that year I was back in Camden to record my third EP, Whale.