Growing up as part of a classically trained, musical family in Denmark was a privilege. Honestly, my upbringing in this setting probably afforded me the best possible opportunity to become a professional musician anyone, anywhere in the world could ever hope for. But now that I live and work in Los Angeles with my history as a Scandinavian portrayed in the American eye via clickbait articles observing the cultural progressiveness of my homeland (see stock photos of happy and hip Scandi’s), I find myself wanting to explore the significance of my upbringing and homeland for a career as a musician. I’ve had a unique experience allowing me to see both sides of the story, how a career in art in Denmark, backed by easily accessible government funding, differs from the more painstaking endeavor of music in the United States. It’s not an uncommon ideal that great struggle begets great art; how then can Denmark’s nurtured music community create great art? Is financial stability, government support, and a comparatively easy ride really better for the formation of musicians than those molded through hardship, graft, and often struggle?
The early stages of my career allow for perspective and understanding of the Scandi way of life for an up-and-coming musician. In some ways you could say I began my career at five; my brother and I were taught violin through the Suzuki method which was paid for partly by my country's cultural budget. I went through all the usual routes of finding work as a professional musician that led me to start my own label, composing for film, TV, and advertising, but have also had some unbelievable experiences. From working with Lars von Trier on Melancholia and Ai Weiwei on his newest contribution to the Berlin, I Love You film series to my band OOFJ, I have enjoyed a fulfilling career in music. In my estimation, this career can be directly attributed to the dedication my brother and I were afforded at such a young age by our parents and government.
So supportive was this environment that I was able to switch instruments at the age of 12. My commitment to becoming the world’s best jazz saxophonist was welcomed with open arms and I was admitted to jazz conservatory in Copenhagen, which, as with all higher education, was completely free. With a subsidy of around $800 a month and the necessary time to study, by my third year I was able to transfer to the New School of Music in New York, again paid for by my conservatory and public and private grants.
While in New York, I was struck by the gnawing desire to move on musically. I remember wandering the streets for six months in New York, a typical 22 year old—avoiding class, lonely, young, and confused. After seeking his advice, my Danish conservatory headmaster allowed me to drop out of the New School and explore the world around me until I was ready to return for my final year while still retaining my extensive funding.
This unique opportunity, available only due to my Danish heritage and backing, was one of the best things anyone has ever done for me. I moved home, finished my studies, and graduated with a degree in avant-garde electronic music from Jazz Conservatory. The freedom to explore and find out who I was as an artist was an immense treasure. Thanks Denmark!
Post-university, it’s not uncommon for artists to enroll at the Danish unemployment office and gain unemployment benefit as a freelancer. Personally, this allowed me to gig around the country for years, subsidized by the government. Other cultures may see this as an unimaginable dream, but the amazing opportunities and comfort afforded to us were often missing one thing that any artist lusts after—an audience. I’ve played shows to as few as ten people—many of whom were employees or friends and family on guest list—and while I felt incredibly grateful and privileged to take home at least $350, as a subsidized support act I could never quite shake the feeling that I was pretending. It felt like some dream sequence in an art film—playing in a massive space and being paid for it handsomely. But in reality, the feeling that I was only being watched by people paid to be there or socially obligated to be felt a little empty. It lacked the urgency, the sense of meaning and connection I was aiming for, and still felt somewhat safe; everyone was paid, everyone gets a nice drink, and we live another day in the arts.
Only now as I’ve made my permanent home in the U.S. have I begun to understand what kind of determination and resources it takes to have a successful band, career, and meaningful artistic life. This land of opportunities with no public funding and a queue of talented young musicians lining up for the big time is very, very brutal, albeit exciting and nowhere near perfect. My first year in Los Angeles I damaged my thumb in a wood cutting machine. The medical bills totaled $6,000. The real dark side of being in America, the aloneness of it, how one error or unlucky turn could set you back was terrifying. I remember being in an apartment in West Hollywood lying in the dark in the middle of summer, forcing myself to try to sleep so I could avoid the fact that I had no prospects. Everyone networks very blatantly here. Handing out business cards, and striking up immediate friendships (very un-Danish). Everyone hustling, promising, hyperbolizing everything. My gut-terror and this bazaar-like atmosphere also gave me an energy. There is something about trying to fight through the masses of people and reach the sprawling musical tapestry, sometimes failing intensely and sometimes not.
I enjoyed my career in Denmark for many years. I lived well and I had time and money to allow me freedom to create and be creative, but it wasn’t until encountering the hardships of America that I really connected with my voice as an artist fully. There’s more to creativity and artistic development than time and money; it needs something more, a path which eventually led me to leave Denmark, meet my future wife Katherine, and begin OOFJ, our joint musical project. This allowed me to find a way to translate my voice into something very different than what I was used to or even comfortable doing. It took many years and a lot of risk, more than I was used to taking back home.
Don't get me wrong, the Danish system is an amazing system that has a proven history of providing exceptional careers and lifestyles for generations of artists. However, despite all of our free art conservatories and funding, we don’t seem to export Tchaikovskys and Björks as often as you would think. We are mostly exporting pleasing, cool pop acts that fit the current cultural trend, while countries like America and certain areas of Europe, despite and possibly because of their hardships, are leading the way in experimental, progressive music. For me personally, I reached a point where I had to step outside of a comfortable and supported existence to really find my feet as a professional musician. I suppose in many ways, I’m the beneficiary of two systems and for that I’ll always be thankful, but in regards to music, the pressure, fear and limitlessness of surviving outside of the Danish system is what really helped me push into territories that are more exciting musically than the comforts of home. Throughout my career I’ve been lucky enough to feel the benefits of two very different systems, each with their own strengths and pitfalls. In Denmark I was nurtured, given freedom to hone my skills and experiment with my boundaries and in America I had them pushed to their very limits, thrusting me away from comfort into hardship and struggle. If great struggle begets great art then surely the home of musical progression and talent lies outside of Denmark. Still, it’s hard not to be thankful for the foundations that brought me here, the romanticism of hardship is all well and good but without the nurturing of artistic vision great art is doomed to be wasted, lost in the vast ocean of musical ambition.
Jens Bjørnkjær is one half of the duo OOFJ, whose debut album, Acute Feast, was released earlier this year. You can follow them on Twitter @oofj.