March 2022: the world is going to Hel. The Russian invasion of Ukraine has kickstarted what will, at best, be the start of a new Cold War, and at worst, a third world war. Inflation, coupled with rising prices for raw materials, energy, and even food are straining the economy of lower and middle-income people the world over; and let us not forget about global warming, pollution, deforestation, covid, etc… and to top it off, the weather in my hometown has been just horrid.
Yep, the world is going to Hel. I guess no one could react to this pitiful state of events by losing hope, entering a deep state of depression, and just stop trying. That would be a very valid (if bleak) response. I, for one, won’t go down this road, at least not now, because Kvelertak is in town.
What the Hel is Kvelertak (Norwegian for “chokehold”) you ask? Just the best live band in the country, no big deal. Founded some fifteen years ago in the southern city of Stavanger, these guys quickly rose to cult status, not just here in Norway, but all over the world, and they even opened for Metallica on their latest European tour. Building upon the Norwegian extreme Metal tradition, all the while mixing in a healthy dose of Hardcore Punk, classic Heavy Metal, and even a splash of near radio-friendly arena-Rock, the band produces catchy, fast, and anthemic music for both the masses and the music nerds.
But while the band has been highly successful in terms of airplay and album sales/ streams, it is in a live context that they shine most brightly of all. Before tonight, I had been able to witness them on stage twice, once at the local Rock festival, and once at the student house, and twice I was blown away. Bringing in the heaviness of Metal, but with a distinctively Punk attitude, their live shows are a take-no-prisoners affair where the public becomes part victims, part coconspirators in a larger than life sonic ritual that transcends time and space.
Ivar Nikolaisen, lead singer of Kvelertak. Photo by Linnea Nordström.
And I am not using hyperboles just for the sake of hyping the band up. Over the past fifteen years, I have been to countless Rock, Punk, and Metal gigs, in half a dozen countries; everything from small basement-like venues, solid Rock fests, to fancy clubs and hippie festivals, and I have never witnessed a band that could literally spellbind the public like that. The first two times I saw Kvelertak, I observed something that I never did with any other band, namely, a mosh-pit from the first song to the last encore.
For those not familiar with Rock terminology, a mosh-pit is a sudden crowd movement during a Rock/ Punk/ Metal concert when the attendees pretty much go berserk, thrashing around, colliding with each other, crushing themselves, and their fellow concert-goers against the barricades, etc… Think dancing, but crossed with wanton violence and injury and you get the picture. Now think about that but for the duration of an entire concert conduced in a deafening and frantic fashion, with beer, sweat, and at times blood mixed in, and you get an idea of what it is like to experience Kvelertak live.
While some people would, quite legitimately, object to being turned into soaked and brown-beaten meat sandwiches, I have found out, that this type of raving behavior brings something unique to the live experience, and in some ways, elevate it to an almost spiritual level. Beyond reason, beyond thoughts, when the music hits, possession takes place. The nerves on the back start trembling, and the feeling spreads to the shoulders, arms, and finally, the head. As the amps transcribe the shrewd technical mastery of the artists dominating the stage into raw airborne vibrations, the nature of the space changes. The sonic ritual has started, and just like that, as if they were cunning witches, the musicians take control of the physical mass of bodies in front of them, controlling the movements of the willing revelers, long into the night.
If all of this is not magic, then I do not know what magic is.
While most might not even stop to consider that a twenty-first-century Rock concert might, in some ways, be an echo of the Pagan practices of olden times, additional elements of comparison can be brought up. Kvelertak, for example, admittedly a secular (and quite irreverent at that) outfit, does make references to Norse myths and culture in their lyrics and artwork, especially in that of their first album.
Written in a somewhat arcane southwestern popular dialect, lyrics to songs such as Mjød (“Mead”), Ordsmedar av rang (“Wordsmith of (high) rank”), or Dendrofil for Yggdrasil (“dendrophilic for Yggdrasil”) represents a creative and dynamic reimagining of the worldview of Heathens of old:
Mjød
Odin gave us / Suttung’s mead / the magical mead / the daily bread / Suttung followed to his heels / Odin kicked his ass / Suttung ain’t no longer alive / we have all the mead we need / full of all your madness
Ordsmedar av rang
Because he was a wordsmith of high rank / he chiseled the strophes that crush trolls, to raze everything / his voice goes through tallow, marrow and bone, and turn them to stone
Dendrofil for Yggdrasil
Never had he got his eyes on a more magnificent sight/ the mighty ash stretched itself well over the heath / with roots that grew far beyond the brow of heavens / he noticed suddenly that his meat-spear had gone slanted / A bloody sacrifice to our all-knowing God / bestial berserkers in skins of wolves and bears / Yes, they were the messengers of Odin
(Excerpts translated from Norwegian Nynorsk/ Stavanger dialect by the author)
Put all of that together, the catchy music, the cunning, wizard-like performers, beer flowing freely, the mythical reference, and you get a live experience that rivals, if not topple, what religious rituals can achieve. Here, each and every musical piece is balanced against each other, creating a rhythm within the entire performance that again, reminds of a ritual.
The music video for the single Blodtørst, directed by Torjus Førre Erfjord evokes the violence of Norse sagas, but with a somewhat humorous twist
Starting with the opening track of their latest album, “Rogaland,” the band’s three (!) guitarists weave a long-winding web of epic melodies coming and going like the ebb and flow, all the while remaining hidden by a massive semi-transparent screen. At the exact moment the drums come in and the screen drops, three attendees fell on the floor, overtaken by the sudden appearance of the mosh pit. From then on, bangers come one after the other, with fast, near-manic Metal hits (“Ulvetid,” “Blodtørst”), leaving the place for more melodic, mid-tempo tracks (“1985,” “Bråtebrann”).
All in unison, the revelers change the pace of their odd mixture of dancing and pugilism in accordance with the performers’ will. Beer flows in the air, people are sent to the floor (before being immediately raised up), the crowd crushes those standing closest to the stage, some dude loses a shoe, and the singer leaps into the arena, the touch of his buttocks blessing the cranium of many a fan. It is pure madness, a near senseless black hole of pure sonic energy where, strangely, everything I can see are smiles, eyes filled with a burning passion, and faces that betray the utmost delectation of all: living in the moment.
The entire Kvelertak gig described in this article was recorded and uploaded onto youtube by user Juha Rahkonen. Judge for yourself of the intensity of the performance.
As the band leaves the stage, seemingly for good, the final part of the ritual takes place: the devotees howl and thrash around, expressing their yearning for that fleeting moment of eternity to last for but one more song. And when the band comes back, as has become enshrined in a sort of an unspoken oath, to play their signature song, “Kvelertak,” the immanent forces at play return unto the hall, sending the audience into yet a deeper level of revelry. And when the singer, Ivar, brings forth a massive flag emblazoned with the band’s symbol, the Eurasian eagle-owl, it is a sign for the ritual to reach its paroxysm and its end.
The guitars go silent, the drum set is deserted, and now is the moment to quit the sacred time and go back to the very un-magical, uncertain world. I manage to scrounge a setlist and one guitar pick and head back into the cold, dark night. As I leave, I see all my fellow concertgoers, all still under the charm of the crafty sextet, chatting, laughing, lively, and reinvigorated. Tonight’s ritual might only have been a mere distraction, a very short haven in between brutish storms, but I know that neither I nor anyone else who was in that hall that night will forget the power, the life, and the magic that was raised. It was a celebration of life, a fist into the face of war, death, and pestilence, and a spell that won’t be broken any time soon.
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