If you have ever found yourself in a dimly lit café in Neukölln, nursing a lukewarm oat milk latte and wondering why the air smells like unwashed linen and intellectual bankruptcy, you have likely encountered the aesthetic ghost of Erlend Øye. The Norwegian musician, a man who has successfully weaponized the concept of being ‘bespectacled and lanky’ into a decades-long career, is back in the headlines. Apparently, the world hasn’t suffered enough. We are now being treated to the twentieth-anniversary celebration of ‘Dreams,’ the debut album by his project with the most redundant name in the history of nomenclature: The Whitest Boy Alive.

Øye is the patron saint of the musically cosmopolitan, a term used by people who find white bread too spicy. The narrative being spun is one of a ‘geographic chameleon,’ a man who flitted from mid-90s London with his band Peachfuzz to the vanguard of the ‘Bergen wave’ in Norway. This ‘wave,’ of course, was less of a tsunami and more of a stagnant drizzle that convinced an entire generation of indie kids that whispering was a valid substitute for having a personality. Then came Kings of Convenience and the ‘new acoustic movement.’ It was a bold, revolutionary time where the height of rebellion was strumming a guitar so softly it could be mistaken for the hum of a dying refrigerator. It was music for people who find the concept of a drum kit to be a form of assault.

But the grift didn't stop in the fjords. No, Øye took his spectacles to Berlin during its ‘poor but sexy’ years. This was an era where the children of European bankers moved to Kreuzberg to play-act poverty while their parents paid the rent. Øye fit right in, spinning records in nightclubs for people who were too ‘ironic’ to actually dance. Then it was off to Sicily to lead La Comitiva into a renaissance of Italian chamber pop. It is the ultimate expression of modern rootlessness: a man who records ten tracks in ten different cities for a solo album appropriately titled ‘Unrest.’ It’s not a travelogue; it’s a cry for help from someone who is clearly trying to outrun his own shadow.

The most baffling part of this narrative—and the one that truly confirms humanity is a lost cause—is the success of The Whitest Boy Alive in Mexico. Øye recalls playing to 8,000 Mexicans who knew every word to his songs. One has to wonder what a crowd in Mexico City sees in the rhythmic equivalent of a beige wall. Is it a form of Stockholm Syndrome? Or perhaps, in a world of constant noise and political chaos, the sheer, unadulterated boredom of Norwegian indie-funk provides a psychological sedative. The Whitest Boy Alive is the musical version of a weighted blanket: it’s heavy, it’s suffocating, and it’s designed to keep you from moving.

Now, they are reuniting for a tour of South America and Europe. They are here to celebrate ‘Dreams,’ an album that promised a future of polite, mid-tempo grooves that never go anywhere. It is the perfect soundtrack for the end of the world—not a bang, not a whimper, but a clean, four-on-the-floor beat played on a toy synthesizer while a man with a scarf sings about feeling slightly inconvenienced. Both sides of the political spectrum are equally guilty of fueling this mediocrity. The Left loves Øye because he represents a borderless, ‘sensitive’ masculinity that fits perfectly into a curated Instagram feed of succulents and vintage record players. The Right loves him because his music is so fundamentally non-threatening that it couldn't possibly inspire a single thought about wealth redistribution or social justice. He is the musical centrist: safe, bland, and utterly devoid of friction.

As Øye ‘looks back’ on his country-hopping sensation, the rest of us are forced to look forward to another summer of lanky boys in turtlenecks trying to find the ‘groove’ in their own privilege. The global success of The Whitest Boy Alive is a testament to the fact that you don't need talent, fire, or anything to say—you just need a passport, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, and a audience desperate enough to believe that irony is a substitute for soul. Twenty years of ‘Dreams’ later, and we are all still waiting to wake up from this milquetoast nightmare.