Avicii’s father talks son’s legacy, mental health and survivor’s guilt

On April 20, 2018, the world lost a music superstar, chart-topping DJ Avicii. At the age of 28, he tragically committed suicide while on vacation in Oman.

For Claes Bergling, he lost his son Tim.

“I miss him every minute,” Claes Berglin shared during a candid and deeply personal video call. “Of course, I talk to him every day. But,” he paused, “I admit, sometimes I get angry at him. Why did you do that? Why did you leave us?”

Avicii’s fame has grown as explosively as the bouncing synths of his groundbreaking smashing levels.

The 2011 hit single, a rollicking parody of the chorus of Etta James’ “Good Feeling,” catapulted the then-22-year-old Swede to pop stardom.

Over the next five years, as club dance music evolved into a ubiquitous, chart-topping EDM genre with Levels as its anthem, Avicii became the poster child for blond hair, blue eyes and high cheekbones – according to reports , which earned $250,000 (£180,000) a night.

But at the age of 26, he retired from live performances. In a personal note to fans, he addressed his physical and mental health but did not detail the full scope of his struggles, which included anxiety, pancreatitis, alcohol and painkiller addiction.

Although Tim went through a period of recovery – making music away from the spotlight – he was still battling his inner demons and searching for existential answers about his life. Two years later, Darkness conquered his final, fatal moments.

Now his family wants people to get to know Tim beyond the stage lights and has released a picture book to commemorate his legacy. It’s part of the family’s efforts through the Tim Bergling Foundation, which was established in 2019 in memory of Tim Bergling to spark awareness around young people’s mental health. Crisis dialogue.

“We wanted to help people transcend Avicii’s fame,” explains Klass, who curated photos from Tim’s childhood to his superstardom. “That’s why we named his posthumous album ‘Tim.'”

Reflecting on the deep connection fans still feel, as evidenced by the thousands of letters and tribute messages on his website, Klass said: “Tim meant so much to young people – his music, his ’s lyrics and his people.

“I didn’t understand why at first, but then a fan said, ‘Tim is so real.'” I understand the authenticity, honesty, and struggles of many young people.

Tim became famous the millennial way by releasing tracks online. In 2008, he adopted the name Avicii, referring to the Buddhist level of hell, after discovering his name being used on MySpace.

After winning a talent competition, he was briefly signed to BBC Radio 1 DJ Pete Tong, and a forum post caught the attention of DJ Laidback Luke.

But Tim has struggled with anxiety since he was a child, often having catastrophic thoughts and worrying that he had cancer. Marijuana use leads to fears of madness, dissociation, and derealization.

Klaas recalls that Tim had intense “identity issues” as a teenager. After a few meetings with a psychologist, Tim felt better. However, touring heightened his anxiety.

A text message included in Tim’s 2021 biography reveals Klass’ concerns: “Hi Tim, hope your inspiration is enough to support this big tour with shows every day. People need to stop and take a breath, but this is yours choose.

The busy schedule took its toll. With “Levels” racking up nearly 20 million views on YouTube before its official release, Tim has toured across the United States, New Zealand, Australia and Asia, often playing multiple shows in different cities on the same day.

To relieve his tension, Tim began drinking heavily. “I discovered the miraculous cure of having a few glasses of wine before going on,” he said in the documentary “Avicii: The True Story.” This dependence grew as he traveled, told GQ in 2013: “You travel everywhere, you live out of a suitcase, you get to this place and there’s free booze everywhere.”

In 2012, he embarked on a 26-day trip to the United States where he drank alcohol that triggered stomach pains that worsened pancreatitis and required hospitalization and opioids, beginning a cycle of health problems and addiction.

The next year in Australia, his pancreatitis returned, but he refused to have his gallbladder removed to avoid canceling more appointments and was prescribed opioids again. His appendix eventually ruptured and he had to undergo surgery.

Klass stressed the need for systemic change in the music industry but was careful to avoid personal accusations.

“I still think [record] Labels, roadies, agents and managers really should have a driver’s license to prove they are fit. This is the way to treat artists,” he asserted.

While he acknowledges that there have been some positive changes since Tim’s death, noting that “Swedish managers at major labels are much more aware today,” he stresses the need for more comprehensive measures to ensure the well-being of artists.

Tim’s health issues coincided with his (now Grammy-nominated) commercial success. His debut album, True, introduced country music and produced hits such as “Wake Me Up” and “Hey Brother.”

By 2015, his mental state had deteriorated due to substance abuse, angry outbursts and erratic behavior. Despite promising that his second album, Stories, would be his best, his struggles led to delays, onstage nihilism and run-ins with paparazzi.

That summer, Klass and his front office knew something had to be done. Together with a therapist, they plan an intervention in Ibiza. In an interview with The Times, Klaas said he felt he had betrayed his son. I asked him what he meant and he had good eyes.

“You face your child and he has no idea what’s going to happen.” Tim’s pained reaction was palpable. “You see he realized there was someone behind it.”

But it’s necessary, Klass said. “There’s no question that it’s going to happen, but it’s not going to be easy.”

Tim, who has always been stubborn, seemed confused, thinking he was being criticized for working endlessly. After several hours of resistance, he agreed to recover, telling Klaas: “I decided a few hours ago, but just wanted to test you.”

Klaas smiled, proud of his son’s “bravery.” After recovering, Tim struggled to escape what he called “the Avicii machine” and quit working with his manager.

In the Avicii: The True Story documentary, which was completed before Tim’s death, Tim is on the beach, apparently no longer touring, and at peace. The reality of his suicide must be added as a jarring postscript.

The grief is compounded by the fact that “my wife and his siblings are happy that he’s improving in a lot of ways,” Klass admitted.

This “may sound contradictory, but it is what it is – he is improving”.

Klass explains that feelings of guilt are “a huge burden” for survivors, who often ask, “What did I do wrong?” He admits, as his therapist told him, “A lot of times you don’t know anything.” can not do this.”

This confusion about loss highlights the pervasive impact of suicide on both those left behind and its immediate victims. Funding from the foundation supports Sweden’s new national suicide prevention hotline, and the government is working on legislation to better investigate suicide. It’s part of Klaas’ 50-year plan to cement his son’s legacy.

At a tribute concert, Klass pledged to put suicide on the political agenda. “We tried to get as many young people as possible, as well as politicians, to attend,” Klaas recalled.

“One of the most powerful moments was when a large group of parents who had lost a child to suicide came on stage. It was such a powerful moment.”

“The most important thing is to break the stigma faced by young people. [With] The next generation faces a war-torn, unstable world, and I think that’s where we can make a difference,” he said.

After Tim’s death, the Stockholm Arena has been renamed the Avicii Arena and the “Together for a Better Day” concert continues to remain in his memory.

“Even though he’s no longer with us, he’s still with us,” Klaas said of Tim’s lasting influence.

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