You could be forgiven if you coasted through much of the 20th century believing that the only music crafted in Sweden rotated solely on the ABBA/Roxette/Ace of Base/Max Martin axis — meaning glossy, highly processed pop with hooks catchy enough to be carcinogenic for how they lingered in the brain. Only with the 2000 release of the Hives’ “Veni Vidi Vicious” did it become apparent to most American critics and audiences that Sweden could rock, too.

That became more evident in 2004 when the blogosphere was set ablaze by “Ta Det Lugnt,” the third album from a heretofore unknown Swedish band whose name was open to much mispronunciation: Dungen (DOON-yen). If Dungen seemed to emerge from nowhere in the 21st century, its spot-on analog sounds seemed to have been placed in a time capsule circa the Summer of Love, accruing no other cultural markers since that halcyon time. Listeners could readily parse bands like the Byrds, the Kinks, the Jimi Hendrix Experience, the Who, and the Zombies in Dungen’s songs, but nothing afterward: no prog, no disco, no punk, no new wave, and no hip-hop.

The purity of its acid vision was admirable in itself, but there was more to “Ta Det Lugnt” than the classic-rock record collection and vintage gear. It emulated its aforementioned countrymen with hooks and refrains that were undeniable, with one striking contrast: It was sung entirely in Swedish.

But the most remarkable aspect of the album was that Dungen was primarily the work of one man, a 20-something named Gustav Ejstes who wrote, arranged, produced, and mixed “Ta Det Lugnt,” in addition to drumming, playing guitar, viola, and flute on the record. It’s a feat he follows up for his stateside debut, “Tio Bitar,” along with some help from his friends, including lead guitarist Reine Fiske. While it remains to be seen if a similar buzz sensation will follow (in Internet time, 2004 is a very long time ago), “Tio Bitar” covers no new ground but holds together better than “Ta Det Lugnt” did.

“Intro” offers the album’s most unhinged and radiant guitar riff in its first two minutes before wandering off into a patch of echoing flute (an instrument that caused lulls in the previous album and does so live). Thankfully, Mr. Ejstes swerves just as promptly back to his pop chops on the breezy and jangly “Familj” and the furious drum fills of “Gör Det Nu.” The album’s highlight is “Du Ska Inte Tro Att Det Ordnar Sig,” which could snuggle in between the Beatles’ “Revolver” and Cream’s “Disraeli Gears” on any record shelf, while the next track, “Mon Amour,” casts off its song structure before long and begins an intense ascent to the stratosphere. Messrs. Fiske and Ejstes (on drums) trade fire in a prolonged exchange as inspired as anything in the recent rock canon, before audibly collapsing in exhaustion at the end.

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Aside from Mr. Fiske’s fretwork here, he has also done much to advance a historical appreciation for Sweden’s underground rock heroes of the 1960s. He recently curated and contributed liner notes to a reissued CD by a band with an oxymoronic appreciation of the notions of time, the Baby Grandmothers. The house band at a swinging ’60s club that hosted the Jimi Hendrix Experience and the Mothers of Invention, the Baby Grandmothers released but one single, “Somebody Keeps Calling My Name” b/w “Being is More Than Life” during their existence.

Like Dungen’s “Mon Amour,” “Somebody Keeps Calling My Name” dispenses its lyrics after a few minutes and moves into a sludgy, modal exploration that glows as incandescent as a funeral pyre. Elsewhere, long tracks such as “Bergakungen” and a live version of “Being Is More Than Life” stretch beyond the 15-minute mark, anticipating the black-hole heaviness of the Melvins while also exploring the outer limits of rock, much as Hendrix and Pink Floyd did at the time. The disc proves that, despite subsequent surface appearances to the contrary, the Swedes truly knew their rock.