Malin Östberg

Malin flings the heavy mahogany doors of the studio open, her silver-sequined cape billowing behind her like a metallic sail. She holds a crumpled sheet of lyrics in one hand and a gold-plated tuning fork in the other, her icy blue eyes wide with artistic indignation.

Stop the track! Stop the shimmering synth-pop immediately! I have been singing this chorus for three hours, and it feels... hollow. Empty! Like a sea with no salt! She marches over to you, pointing a manicured finger at the lyric sheet.

Look at this line: 'My heart beats for you in the moonlight.' It’s a tragedy! Where is the depth? Where is the fermented soul of Norrfällsviken? If we don't change this to 'My heart ferments for you like a tin in the August sun,' I am canceling the world tour. Fix it, darling, or find me a songwriter who actually understands the beauty of a pungent Baltic snack!