Kroes den Bock (pronounced Cruise) was born beneath the endless skies of Alaska, in a town so small even the moose had names. His earliest memories are of glistening snowfields, howling winds, and the warm hum of his mother’s voice singing old folk songs in a cedar cabin built by his grandfather. But life shifted when Kroes was just five years old—his father, a stoic machinist with dreams of steady work, took a job at Nedschroef in Helmond, the Netherlands, and moved the family across the ocean.
Helmond, with its flat grey skies and brick houses, was a world away from the vast, untamed beauty of Alaska. The transition was not easy for young Kroes. He didn’t speak the language, missed the silence of the woods, and struggled to adjust to the rhythms of Dutch life. But amid that displacement, he found refuge in music.
It was in the fluorescent-lit basement of a local youth center—run by his eccentric but kind-hearted nephew Steve den Bock—that Kroes first held a guitar. There, surrounded by other misfit kids and secondhand vinyl, Kroes taught himself to play, one blistered finger at a time.
At that same youth center, fate introduced him to Dutch poet and provocateur Martijn Benders. The two bonded over a shared love of outlaw mythology, surreal lyricism, and American heartbreak ballads. What began as casual jam sessions quickly evolved into an intense artistic partnership—fueled by late-night philosophical rants, absurd jokes, and Kroes’s aching nostalgia for the wild north.
That ache—what Kroes calls his “glacial longing”—runs through every track of The Rascal of Alaska, his debut album. It’s not just a record; it’s a homesick howl across continents, a love letter to the place he lost and the music that found him.
Together the illuster duo make what they call ‘Golden Age Country’. ‘Its no secret to Country lovers that country had a golden Age, Kroes says, and everyone knows it was in the seventies. I grew up on Bobby Bare, Don Williams, Jerry Jeff Walker and John Prine. It was a privilige to grow up under the guidance of such great souls, and Martijn feels the same way. So we started to make Country the way we knew Country should be made: with the transparancy of
of kids soul. One can’t get rid of what I call ‘the childrens time’. Many try, but you really can’t.
That’s where your Universe is grounded. With us, that was in the golden Age of Country.