We're not very incognito." Howlin' Pelle Almqvist feels two-dozen eyes on him as he chews his muffin. His hair is a deep chestnut hue usually reserved for horses or wigs. The way it frames his high cheekbones and 90-degree jawline gives him an air of regal arrogance, like Mick Jagger in the 1970 film Performance. That is to say, the 25-year-old lead singer of the Hives looks like the perfect rock star. It's hard not to stare at him, especially as he and his older brother, guitarist Nicholaus Arson (also dreamy in a close-cropped, haunted Ian Curtis way) are clad head to toe in matching ensembles: black trousers, black button-down shirts, black socks, white patent leather shoes, and white zip-up windbreakers. Call it Hives workwear.
Almqvist lives nearby, as does girlfriend Maria Andersson, of Swedish punk group and summer touring partners Sahara Hotnights. The other Hives (excluding Carlstroem) are staying in a Stockholm hotel while they mix their first album in four years, the excellently titled Tyrannosaurus Hives. As work stretches perilously close to the July 20 release date, many short coffee breaks are taken. This is one of them. Outside it's pouring. The cobblestone streets are slick and gray. Dampened pedestrians have taken shelter in the warmly lit mall and now surround us. Many of them observe, but never approach.
"That's just very typically Swe-dish," Almqvist notes. "You're not supposed to act like you recognize someone. You just walk on a few extra blocks and then you whisper to your friend, 'Did you see who that was?'" Suddenly a tiny pink hand tugs on his sleeve. A blond toddler in a back harness has broken free from his mother's grip and bucked local etiquette. The little Hives fan's grin is beatific as he gazes at Almqvist. The singer smiles. Arson, 26, the more stoic of the pair, only smirks. The child's mother blushes and gently removes the tot from the harness and pulls him to her lap.
"Babies love the Hives," I suggest.
"They actually do!" Almqvist says. "At least from when they're three. They start doing this." He cheerfully imitates a baby emulating one of his signature hand-jive stage moves. "And that's like a receipt. It's something that we, as a band, always like, 'cause it's a receipt of universal appeal. There's no coolness or cred involved with three-year-olds."
Almqvist uses the term receipt a lot in conversation. If you've ever seen him strutting onstage, shouting "Show me love! You are not loud enough," or boasting of bogus album sales in the tens of millions, you know he's a guy who requires validation for what he's giving out: Fun. Release. Pure Rock Pleasure. The private Howlin' Pelle says similarly outlandish things.
"We think we should be popular because we are good," he tells me at one point. "This is what you should like. It's healthier for you, our kind of music. We're like social workers telling people what to eat." Although part of him might just believe such claims, Almqvist, a former school teacher, is also completely aware he's being a brat. The other Hives share this weird fondness for poker-faced impudence. Earlier I tried to get a rise out of Dr. Matt Destruction just to see how fierce he actually is (Destruction is a misnomer; he's the sweetest, most jovial Hive).
Spin: So, are you an actual doctor?
Destruction: Yes, of course.
Spin: Well, if someone got hit by a taxi outside, could you save them?
Destruction: Yes. With my bass guitar.
The Hives' fidelity to grand-scale impishness is one of the things that makes children want to reach out and grab them. In their matching outfits, the band members can appear doll-like. Thanks to an unwavering code of conduct, a rigid distinction between rock's good and evil sides, and a solemn pledge to uphold the former, they conduct themselves like comic-book crime fighters (one B-side is called "The Hives Are Law, You Are Crime"). The uniforms remind the group of their calling as they move through the city and, more crucially, through the corrupt metropolis of the music industry.
"Maybe sometimes during the day you don't wanna play, but when you start getting dressed, it's more like a state of mind," Carlstroem, 25, says a week later. "It is like the police wearing uniforms. We're on duty."
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