In the aftermath of Bergling’s death, many of his closest associates sought help for their own issues and dependencies. At the same time, Bergling texted his mother, full of love and excitement about a move from LA back to Stockholm. In messages to his therapist, he confided that he had become confused by what felt like a torrent of insights. But he would meditate intensely for hours, impatient to achieve enlightenment at speed. The book discusses how insidiously – or suddenly – psychosis can affect THC users.īergling became involved with transcendental meditation, which he credited with reducing his anxiety. As the book draws to its harrowing ending, Mosesson offers up a series of factors at play in 2018.Īlthough he had kicked virtually everything else, Bergling still smoked a lot of weed. There are no kneejerk conclusions here, just candour and context: pressure, both external and internal, absolutely played a role in Avicii’s unravelling, as did the US prescription opioid scandal. But in a recent interview, Bergling senior was specific in exonerating Pournouri, with whom his son had reconciled, and keen to examine the bigger music industry picture, beating the drum for swifter mental health interventions. After Bergling’s death, online opinion swirled around the relentless schedule over which Avicii’s management had presided. The author was also privy to Bergling’s digital life – texts, emails and messageboard posts a level of intimate access biographers must surely have only dreamed of until now.īergling’s former manager, Arash Pournouri, declined to participate. Mosesson had access to Bergling’s rehab journal and almost everyone in his life – ex-girlfriends, childhood pals, fellow superstar DJs, psychotherapists. An interest in the esoteric led Bergling to name himself after a particularly punishing zone of Buddhist hell. A shy, curious, stubborn youngster who feared he would get cancer, he suffered from serious acne and social anxiety, affecting his self-esteem. Mosesson is very good on the path to fame and the wider ecosystem around Avicii. The book succeeds in fleshing out Bergling, an elfin poster boy for hyper-commercial EDM who wanted to be taken seriously as an artist. Written by Swedish journalist Måns Mosesson and translated by a US academic Brad Harmon, the book’s slightly wide-eyed tone finds strait-laced grownups grappling with the extremes of youth, from World of Warcraft – an obsession of the younger Bergling – to the wild west of club culture, via the monomaniacal perfectionism of digital music-making.Īvicii DJing at the Ultra Music festival in Miami, March 2012. Tim: The Official Biography of Avicii retells Bergling’s story, adding considerable context and lashings of pain: parents Klas and Anki Bergling are major sources. In 2019, an anonymous book by another industry insider, The Secret DJ, went even deeper into the lunacy of the lifestyle. Quite aside from the usual hedonism, the hours an ambitious, in-demand EDM DJ had to keep were gruelling: multiple gigs in one night, sometimes in different countries or time zones, with constant travel (especially hard for the flight-phobic Bergling) and scant basic self-care. Stardom has always come at a high price, but in EDM, capitalising on your hot streak seemed especially urgent. Viewers were witness to a life unravelling, privy to alarming practices that were normalised. When it appeared on Netflix, True Stories reverberated well beyond club culture, super-charging the existing public debate around the mental health of performers. He would meditate intensely for hours, impatient to achieve enlightenment at speed
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