Olav Larsen & The Alabama Rodeo Stars may not have set out to redefine Americana from the fjords of Norway, but through Stream of Consciousness Vol. 2, he proves how much weight a quiet voice can carry. In this interview, the seasoned singer-songwriter reflects on how the record’s textured soundscape and broader emotional range were born from the same creative well as his earlier, stripped-back work. The conversation moves through questions of artistic longevity, genre fidelity, and the unshakable pull of honest songwriting. Olav offers rare clarity as he addresses the absurdity of social media-fed narcissism, the tension between restraint and revelation in lyrics, and how communal voices helped carry his songs past what he could reach alone. If you’re curious about what it means to stay real in an industry obsessed with reinvention, you’ll want to read this to the final line.
Olav, it’s a pleasure to welcome you to A&R Factory. Thanks for taking the time to speak with us about your latest album and the work that’s brought you here.
Thanks for having me. It’s always nice when people take the time to listen and engage with the music.
Stream of Consciousness Vol. 2 feels like both a continuation and a departure from the stripped-down aesthetic of its predecessor. What prompted the decision to lean into a fuller, more band-oriented sound this time around?
The songs themselves called for it. While Vol. 1 was initially recorded mostly in one room with a couple of vintage mics, just me and my guitar, this time I felt the stories needed a broader palette, even though most of the songs were written at the same time as the ones on Vol. 1. The band and I had a few loose sketches from earlier sessions, and we built on those with intention. I wanted to preserve the rawness but stretch out sonically. The choir, the organ, the layered guitars all serve the emotion rather than cover it up.
You’ve often been described as a “country purist,” and yet your work never feels stuck in the past. How do you strike that balance between staying true to the genre’s roots while still saying something personal and present?
I think it comes down to honesty. I grew up on country, gospel, soul, and folk music, and those genres were always about truth-telling. I’m not trying to recreate the past or chase trends either. I just write what feels real to me, in the moment I’m in. If the bones of a song are strong, you don’t need to dress them up too much. It’s in the heart of the song where tradition and now can meet.
Growing up in Stavanger with your father’s blues records must have shaped your early understanding of storytelling through sound. Can you recall a specific record or moment that first made you feel like songwriting was the path you needed to follow?
I remember hearing “There Was a Light” by Chris Bell for the first time. That wrecked me. It wasn’t blues, but it had the same ache and beauty I heard in the old records my father played. That song opened a door for me. It was fragile but certain, and I knew I wanted to write something that made someone else feel like that.
Norway isn’t the most obvious place to find a voice like yours echoing the spirit of Gram Parsons or Uncle Tupelo. Have you faced any pushback for committing to a genre so rooted in American tradition, or has it opened more doors than expected?
Both, to be honest. Early on, people weren’t quite sure what to make of it. Americana wasn’t a big thing in Norway when I started out. But over time, I’ve seen it connect with people on a deeper level than genre. A good song is a good song. And now there’s a growing scene here that embraces those roots, so it’s been encouraging. We even have a name for it: Norwegicana or Nordicana, I believe they call it. Check out the likes of Malin Pettersen, Darling West, and Sugarfoot, to mention a few.
The new album touches on longing, protest, and personal growth without slipping into preachiness. How do you decide which themes to explore in your writing, and what made these topics feel urgent now?
I don’t sit down with a theme in mind. I write to process, to reflect, to figure things out. But of course, the times we live in seep into the writing. The world feels fragile and loud. I wanted to make something that holds space for both anger, frustration, and beauty and grace. I think we’re all craving a bit more meaning and connection. These songs came from that place.
From the title track to “Protest Singers,” the lyrics feel carefully weighted, even when delivered with simplicity. How important is restraint in your writing, and do you ever feel tempted to say more than you should?
Restraint is key. A line can hit harder when you trust the silence around it. I always try to write from a place of clarity. That doesn’t mean every emotion is tidy. It just means I aim to say what needs to be said and let the listener meet me halfway. And yes, I do sometimes want to overexplain or tie it up in a bow, but that’s usually when I know I should pull back. On another note, this particular song is written with a sense of my own humorous taste. Even though I feel the negative, almost narcissistic energy we all bring to the table through the lens of social media, and I write about some of the interhuman results of this on this record, I also see that same energy in many singer-songwriters’ work these days, including my own, and I do find that to be a bit funny.
There’s a strong communal feel to this record with the addition of the choir and guest vocals. How did those collaborations come about, and what did they bring out in the material that may have surprised you?
The choir is something I’ve always been fond of, but this was the first time it really became an important instrument in helping build the songs’ crescendos. The songs were reaching for something bigger than myself, and I wanted other voices to carry that weight with me. Working with friends and fellow musicians is always a blast. It wasn’t about perfection, but rather about feeling. And it surprised me how much that lifted the songs beyond what I had imagined.
After nearly twenty years in music, you’re still creating albums that critics are calling career-best work. How do you keep that spark alive, and what does longevity in this space look like to you?
You stay curious. You stay open. I’ve never had a five-year plan, but I’ve always tried to show up fully for whatever season I’m in. Some years you feel like you’re climbing a mountain. Other times it flows like a river. But if you keep writing a little bit every day, keep listening, and keep learning from the masters, I guess the spark keeps finding you. Longevity, for me, isn’t about staying relevant. I honestly do not care about staying relevant. It’s about staying real.
Stream the latest releases from Olav Larsen & The Alabama Rodeo Stars on Spotify now.
Interview by Amelia Vandergast
