Avicii’s father on his son’s legacy, mental health and sins

On April 20, 2018, the world lost a music superstar, DJ Avicii topped the charts. At just 28 years old, he tragically took his own life while on holiday in Oman.

For Klas Bergling, he lost his son, Tim.

“I miss him every minute,” Klas Bergling shares over a candid and deeply personal video call. “Of course, I talk to him every day. But,” he paused, “I admit, sometimes I get angry with him. Why do you do that? Why do you leave us ?”

Avicii’s rise to fame was as explosive as the bouncing synths of his groundbreaking Levels.

The 2011 hit, which happily reclaimed Etta James’s “feeling good” refrain, catapulted the then 22-year-old Swede into pop superstardom.

Over the next five years, as club dance music evolved into the popular, chart-topping genre known as EDM, with Levels as its national anthem, Avicii became the blond-haired, cheeky guy tall on the poster – reportedly earning $250,000 (£180,000) a night on the show. tour.

But at age 26, he retired from live shows. In a personal note to fans, he mentioned his physical and mental health without detailing the full extent of his struggles, which involved anxiety, pancreatitis , alcohol and painkiller addiction.

Despite a period of recovery – producing music away from the spotlight – Tim continued to struggle with his inner demons in search of existential answers to his life. Two years later, The darkness overtook him for the last time, death.

Now, his family wants people to get to know Tim beyond the spotlight, releasing a photo book to honor his legacy. It’s part of the family’s efforts through the Tim Bergling Foundation, established in his memory in 2019, to open up the conversation around the mental health crisis among young people.

Klas, who carefully selected photos from Tim’s childhood to his life as a superstar, explains: “We wanted to help people see beyond Avicii’s fame. That’s also why we named his posthumous album ‘Tim'”.

Reflecting on the deep connection fans still feel, expressed through the thousands of letters and tribute messages on his website, Klas said: “Tim meant so much to young people – the music, the lyrics and the person he is.

“At first I didn’t understand why, but then a fan said, ‘Tim is so genuine.’ I get it. Many young people relate to that authenticity, his honesty and his struggle.”

Tim got famous the millennial way by posting songs online. He adopted the name Avicii in 2008, a reference to the Buddhist levels of hell, after discovering his first name was being used on MySpace.

Briefly signed by BBC Radio 1 DJ Pete Tong after winning a talent contest, he caught the attention of DJ Laidback Luke by posting on his forum.

But Tim struggled with anxiety from a young age, often having tragic thoughts and fearing he had cancer. Marijuana use leads to fears of madness, dissociation, and loss of reality.

Klas recalls Tim having intense “identity questions” during his youth. After several meetings with a psychologist, Tim felt better. However, the tour made him even more nervous.

A message in Tim’s 2021 bio reveals Klas’ concerns: “Hi Tim, hope your inspiration is enough for this huge tour, with gigs every day. People I need to stop and take a breather, but that’s your choice, old man.

The busy schedule took its toll. As Levels garnered nearly 20 million views on YouTube before its official release, Tim’s tour included performances across the United States, New Zealand, Australia and Asia, often performing multiple shows. in different cities on the same day.

To calm his nerves, Tim turned to alcohol. “I found the miracle cure by just having a few drinks before moving on,” he said in the documentary Avicii: True Stories. This dependency increases when you travel, told GQ in 2013: “You travel everywhere, you live out of a suitcase, you get to this place, there’s free alcohol everywhere.”

In 2012, he embarked on a 26-day US tour that left him with stomach pain from drinking alcohol, leading to hospitalization and a prescription for opioids to treat worsening pancreatitis, starting a cycle health problems and addictions.

The following year in Australia, his pancreatitis returned, but he refused to have his gallbladder removed to avoid having to cancel more appointments and be prescribed opioids again. His appendix eventually ruptured, requiring surgery.

Klas emphasized the need for systemic change in the music industry but was careful to avoid blaming individuals.

“I still think so [record] labels, tour operators, agents and managers are actually required to have a driver’s license to prove they are fit. This is how artists should be handled,” he asserted.

While acknowledging some positive changes since Tim’s death, noting that “Swedish managers at the major record labels are more aware today”, he emphasized that measures were needed. more comprehensive solution to ensure the welfare of artists.

Tim’s health problems coincided with his commercial success (now nominated for a Grammy). His debut album True, which introduced a country sound, spawned hits like Wake Me Up and Hey Brother.

By 2015, his mental state deteriorated due to drug abuse, angry outbursts and erratic behavior. Despite promising his second album Stories would be his best, his difficulties led to delays, onstage nihilism and clashes with paparazzi.

That summer, Klas and his manager knew they had to do something. Together with a therapist, they planned an intervention in Ibiza. In an interview with the Times, Klas said he felt he had betrayed his son. I asked him what he meant and his eyes were fine.

“You confront your child, who has absolutely no idea what’s going to happen.” Tim’s distressed reaction was obvious. “You see that he realizes something is being planned behind his back.”

But it is necessary, Klas said. “There’s no doubt about doing that, but getting there is not easy.”

Tim, always stubborn, appeared confused, thinking he was being criticized even though he worked non-stop. After hours of resistance, he agreed to rehab, telling Klas: “I decided hours ago but just wanted to check on you.”

Klas smiled, feeling proud of his son’s “bravery”. After rehab, Tim fought his way out of what he described as “the Avicii machine” and quit his job with his manager.

The documentary Avicii: True Stories, completed before his death, depicts Tim on a beach, seemingly at peace and no longer touring. The truth about his suicide had to be added as a jarring post-script.

Klas admitted the pain was compounded by the fact that “my wife and his siblings are happy that he has improved in many ways.”

It “sounds contradictory, but that’s the way it is – he’s improving”.

Klas explains guilt as a “huge burden” for survivors, who often ask “what did I do wrong?” He admits, as therapists have told him, “many times there’s nothing you can do.”

This confusion about loss highlights the widespread impact of suicide on those left behind as well as on the direct victims. The foundation’s funding supports Sweden’s new national suicide prevention hotline, with the government working to legislate to better investigate suicide. This is part of Klas’ 50-year plan to cement his son’s legacy.

At a tribute concert, Klas promised to put the issue of suicide on the political agenda. “We tried to attract as many young people as possible, as well as politicians.” Klas recalls.

“One of the most powerful moments was a large group of parents who had lost their children to suicide walking on stage. It was a powerful moment.”

“The most important thing is to remove discrimination against young people. [With] an unstable, war-torn world facing the next generation, that’s where I think we can be helpful,” he said.

Since Tim’s death, the arena in Stockholm has been renamed Avicii Arena, and the Together for a Better Day concerts continue in his memory.

Reflecting on Tim’s lasting impact, Klas said: “Even though he’s no longer with us, he’s still very much with us.”

Avicii: The Life and Music of Tim Bergling will be published by Max Ström on June 13.