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Given a choice, I would prefer that for my band, Loki’s Laugh. That was probably why I’d pushed so hard for us to sign with the Suspicious Activity record label, rather than any of the corporate labels that had started sniffing around.
Varg dreamt of limos and private jets, whereas my concern was more about our legacy. I wasn’t sure what Ragnar’s endgame was— it was more than possible he didn’t have one. More than any of us, he seemed to be able to live in the present, keeping the train on the tracks, wherever it might be headed.
Once my dishes were done, I noticed that Varg had called, so I called him back, waiting to see what kind of new taunting he might be subjecting me to today. We were both in our late twenties, though you wouldn’t necessarily know it, thanks to the antics we got ourselves into.
“Sorry, was busy and missed your call,” I said, once he’d answered.
“Quit ruminating on the universe and come on down,” Varg commanded me.
It wasn’t the worst advice I’d heard, and it had the advantage of having a kernel of truth to it, so I did as I was told and headed downstairs. I was given to rumination at inopportune times, a fact that my fellow band members never hesitated to make fun of me for.
That was true even though Ragnar had sent me down the path in the first place. He knew more about pagan spirituality than anyone I’d ever encountered, his rune tattoos being about more than just fashion to him.
Once I reached the band’s van, I saw that it was less of a wreck than usual. We’d had a meeting about the possibility of replacing the old girl, but had decided against it, instead opting to have it fixed up as much as possible, from mechanics to paint job.
We even went so far as to have the upholstery replaced with soft leather. There was too much nostalgia attached to it to get rid of it. Luckily, despite its recent alterations, it still felt the same to us.
“You’re driving,” Varg announced, tossing me the keys.
“Are you hungover?” I asked him.
“Like an awning. I already have too many points on my license to go dozing off on the road.”
“You were the last one here, so you have to drive,” Ragnar pointed out.
“Fine,” I said, with a sigh.
Aiming the electric blue rocket towards our target destination, I took off toward The Sanctuary, hoping that Sven would be merciful. As Suspicious Activity’s main producer and head engineer, he was known for his stern demeanor and his insistence on running a tight ship despite us hooligans who tried to muck it up all the time.
“You’re late,” Sven said, as we walked into the studio a scant five minutes past the appointed time.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t realize that they would be picking me up, or more like, asking me to drive the rest of the way, and—” I started to say, but Sven soon cut me off.
“Shit the bed on your own time. No skin off my ass; I get paid either way. You might have some explaining to do to Seth, though, since you were scheduled to be here five minutes ago.”
Nodding solemnly and mumbling our apologies as well as our “Yes, sir”s, the three of us band members entered the booth, our instruments already set up. It was a hallmark of Suspicious Activity albums that they were recorded live off the floor. This was an efficient, if unorthodox, method that worked better with some bands than others.
We’d started out playing live shows, though, long before we’d even thought about recording. As a result, we could just go in and play through the set, as though we were at a gig.
Now as we made our way through just such a live recording session, I could swear I saw Sven smile in response to how well things were going. He wasn’t so bad, really— just a bit cranky and with a sense of humor that could sound insulting if you didn’t know him well enough to realize he was coming from a place of good intentions.
Our sound was a little rough in the beginning, but we’d soon come together quite nicely. The problem clearly stemmed from our differences. We stuck with the more basic songs to start with, which was easier said than done, given our various musical backgrounds all coming into play.
Varg was all about the Black Metal, while Ragnar veered more toward the pagan folk sphere as he tried to mimic the natural rhythms of the earth. I was the greatest outlier, given more to the goth and dream pop end of things.
If asked for my “desert island band,” I would be torn between Joy Division and Cocteau Twins. This would be much to the shock of my bandmates who, ironically, had known me as long as anyone.
