They’re Swedish, they’re a retro rock band and they are completely unknown. Well, almost. The Caesars aren’t well known beyond their catchy song “Jerk It Out” featured on the familiar iPod Shuffle commercial. However, that song was just the tip of the musical iceberg. Allow me to enlighten you with an anecdote.

When first hearing those magical rhythms on TV, I rushed out and searched my little heart for their one American CD. I searched far and wide, until, finally, a purple-haired music consultant at Amoeba Records in Los Angeles showed me to their row. He, or she, proclaimed the brilliance of the CD. I immediately purchased the album and rushed home to put it on. For exactly the next 39 minutes, I was whisked away to a land of fresh, energetic rock ‘n’ roll not heard by these ears since the days of Operation Ivy. Logically, the CD was called 39 Minutes of Bliss (In an Otherwise Meaningless World) and it blistered with youthful energy. The very first words on the entire album are “I want to smoke crack, ’cause you’re never coming back.” Immature and sincere at the same time, the Caesars’ lyrics are primitive in today’s world of overly metaphorical angst-filled lyrics. Of course, when track four rolled around and “Jerk It Out” came on, I was delighted by the very same reason why I purchased the album, and I was not disappointed in the least. Other top songs include “Only You” and “Lets Go Parking Baby,” which contains the lyric, “Lets go parking baby, stay out every night. You and me together, two wrongs don’t make a right,” which is dangerously lovely. The album became an instant favorite and anything and everything Caesars became my business.

Later on that same year, the Caesars released their second American album, Paper Tigers, which is equally as youthful. This time around, and building off whatever fame they previously had, Paper Tigers was well received by critics. Top cuts include the title track, “Paper Tigers,” and “It’s Not the Fall That Hurts.” To celebrate the release, the Caesars went on tour through America, stopping in my own backyard at L.A.’s famed Troubadour. I purchased my ticket and went down to the club, fashionably late, of course, and was surprised by what I saw when I entered the doors. A club built to hold nearly 350 people was filled with maybe 100 young indie-rockers – pathetic. Nevertheless, being the champs they are, Jocke, David, Nino and C