Nefertiti — The Swedish Soul Frequency
By Rafi Mercer
New Listing
Venue Name: Nefertiti
Address: Hvitfeldtsplatsen 6, 411 20 Gothenburg, Sweden.
Website: nefertiti.se
Instagram: @nefertiti.se
In Gothenburg, the sea air carries sound differently. It’s salt-tinged and slow, as if shaped by distance and wind. Somewhere between the canal light and the rhythm of trams, there’s a space that’s kept its pulse for decades — a room that’s felt every genre, every generation. Nefertiti is that frequency.
Down the steps off Hvitfeldtsplatsen, the entrance glows like an old film still. You walk in past the posters, the echoes, the faint smell of vinyl and stage wood. The name stretches across a low brick wall — bold, confident, unpretentious. Inside, the light is amber, the ceilings low, the sound alive. It’s not a club you stumble into; it’s a listening space disguised as one.
Nefertiti has been part of Gothenburg’s soul since 1978. It began as a jazz club, built by musicians and enthusiasts who believed in the idea that music should be felt, not merely played. Over the years, it’s absorbed new rhythms: funk, Afrobeat, R&B, electronic experiments, and everything between. Yet even as the styles changed, one truth remained — this is a place that listens. The acoustics are part of its legend. You feel the pressure of sound in the brick, not against it. Bass settles deep and warm, cymbals hang in the air with perfect decay.
The system is a workhorse of warmth and clarity — a hand-tuned D&B Audiotechnik Y-series array paired with vintage McIntosh MC-series amplification for the jazz sets, running through an analogue desk that still bears the fingerprints of decades of gigs. Engineers here speak softly about sound; they treat the room like an instrument. On any given night, you might hear a trumpet line cut through the crowd like winter air or a bass solo that feels like it’s played just for the brickwork.
What makes Nefertiti special isn’t just the fidelity; it’s the feeling of continuity. On the same stage where Herbie Hancock once played, local students now stretch out their own improvisations. A DJ might follow with deep-cut vinyl — a Pharaoh Sanders live pressing, a Don Cherry spiritual groove, a rare Scandinavian fusion track. The transition from live to vinyl is seamless, as if the room itself refuses to stop resonating.
At the bar, the soundtrack continues. Drinks are straightforward — local craft beer, aquavit, whisky, natural wine — but the pour carries the same care as the sound mix. There’s food too: small plates, Swedish bistro dishes, fish that tastes of the nearby harbour. The kitchen opens two hours before shows, so early listeners can dine while sound-checking bands send soft lines across the room. Conversation mixes with rehearsal, and for a brief moment the entire place feels like a single rehearsal of life.
Nefertiti attracts a rare crowd. You’ll see grey-haired jazz veterans seated beside design students, visiting producers, and people who came just to listen. It’s not scene-driven; it’s spirit-driven. There’s a generosity in the way people hold space for one another. No one shouts over the music. When a solo peaks, the room responds with quiet awe. It’s a culture that Sweden does well — polite yet passionate, orderly yet emotional.
The visuals match the sound. Exposed brick and dark timber carry the patina of time; mirrors behind the bar reflect the low amber bulbs that hang like moons. During winter, condensation gathers on the inside windows, softening the edges of the crowd into impressionist blur. The stage glows a deep blue, and somewhere near the bar a record spins slowly, bridging sets.
Every summer, Nefertiti expands into the open air — the Nefertiti Solen series transforms the courtyard into an outdoor listening garden. The speakers face outward, the sky becomes the ceiling, and the same warmth translates into open-air clarity. It’s as if the venue breathes out after months of indoor intensity, sending its sound back into the city.
The programming remains adventurous. One night it’s a free-jazz trio from Oslo, the next it’s an electronic producer performing a modular live set, the next a funk ensemble pushing every frequency into alignment. In between, there are vinyl-listening evenings curated by the in-house DJs — the kind of nights where the record player becomes the headliner. It’s common to hear a Miles Davis record follow an Ebo Taylor groove, the transition executed with the precision of a seasoned selector.
At some point in the evening, you’ll forget what time it is. The city outside keeps its schedule — trams, students, the hum of Gothenburg University — but inside Nefertiti, the tempo is different. It turns at its own pace, a constant 33 revolutions per minute. You might find yourself sitting alone at the bar, watching the lights shift, feeling grateful that places like this still exist — venues that understand that music isn’t noise, it’s architecture.
When the night ends, you step back into the Scandinavian cold. Your ears still hold warmth, the kind that comes from real air moving through real space. You walk toward the river and hear the wind across the water like a cymbal fade-out. That’s what Nefertiti does best: it tunes you back to the world.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters. For more stories from Tracks & Tales, subscribe, or click here to read more.
