An Exclusive Interview With Swedish Meatballs Sludge Nation. By James DiGiovanna A DAY WITH Sludge Nation is like raiding the coasts of ancient Brittany with a party of Viking Berserkers. Well, not really. Actually, this five-member, Swedish alterna-pop combo are some of the nicest, most law-abiding citizens you're likely to find in the local rock and roll landscape. KM, their drummer, summed up their attitude when he said "The police have never been mean to us...but then, the police are not attending our shows." As an example of how nice the police were, and how unpleasant rock fans can be, KM tells this story: It seems that Sludge Nation had been booked to play a small stage along with several other college radio-friendly bands, but they were moved, by accident or overcrowding, to a larger stage in the club room below...this one reserved for some unsavory metal acts, with the requisite crowd of not-so-tolerant fans. After a couple numbers by the Sons of ABBA (guitarist Christopher's joke name for the Swedish-born Sludge Nation) the crowd, which included some Nazi-skins, became a bit unseemly and chased the boys into a bathroom, threatening to kill them and otherwise bum out their day. "We don't like racists...they are assholes," explained Christopher. Sludge Nation barricaded themselves in and yelled for someone to call the police. Apparently, someone did, as the skinhead and death-metal throng was dispersed by the local constabulary and Sludge Nation lived to rock another day. Hey, it beats Altamont. So maybe being five upstanding heterosexual citizens of one of the world's most polite countries is what makes Sludge Nation the perfect band for the post-G.G. Allin age. As KM says, "It's nice to be in a band where everyone cares about each other." They all take equal credit for writing the music, and claim egos never get in the way. The band members talk about each other as though they were family, or even as different parts of the same body: "The music is about five different personalities that blend, like arms and legs and such making a body." And as far as I could tell, they don't engage in excessive drug use, nor do they chase groupie tail. Mans, the singer ("But I am not the leader of the band...") says he's happy "just wanking. I like to wank. It's good enough. I mean, five guys living together in a big house...what do you think? It's a wank palace. Casa de Wank. There's always a wet corner of the bed." It seems the five have just moved in together in Casa de Wank here in Tucson, ostensibly to avoid being corrupted by the New York/Los Angeles music scene. They played both of those cities before settling down here, and they didn't like them, saying they were too noisy and crowded. Compared to their hometown of Gotenberg, Sweden, which Mans described as "like hell, only muddier," Green Valley would seem too crowded. Gotenberg was where the three original band members--Mans, who everyone thinks is the leader of the band just because he has the most piercings, Pieter, the bassist, and KM, the cute drummer-boy who proudly shows the omnipresent wallet picture of his 4-year-old daughter--all met when they were 14-year-old school boys. Seeing that classes and book learning were for those without a predilection to rock, KM and Pieter chucked the school thing for government-subsidized jam space. Mans finished the Swedish equivalent of high school, but says he doesn't have much call for algebra and Introduction to Swedish Literature now. So, kids, the quasi-moral is: If you want to play the music of the gods, drop out and plug in. The trio started to play punk rock "very slowly...we weren't good enough to play fast." The word on their first demo record, which they forced their friends to listen to, is that it was "30 or 40 very short songs...like five seconds long. Mostly short versions of covers of songs by Swedish heavy metal bands." Unfortunately, this early work never hit our shores; but it sounds hella fun. After a couple of years of this, the band's sound shifted towards a Pixies/Pavement blend, with the introduction of guitarist Christopher Dahlgren. He'd previously been with what he described as a "Helmet-like band," although he admits to being no more musically accomplished than the existing members. Together they were able to move from the "slow punk" sound of their early incompetence to a more polished sound modeled on the Pixies, Dinosaur Jr., the Afghan Wigs, Sebodoah, Matthew Sweet and other indie-label gods of the late eighties. Still, their sound remained somewhat generic until keyboardist Paul Kallman joined, adding ELO-ish organ sounds to the band's grunge influences. Eight months ago he was replaced by new keyboardist Jonas, who continues to evolve the sound. "It would be boring if I just held one key, so I have to play little melodies," says Jonas, explaining his instrument's extremes. Speaking of their instruments, the band claims to come from the land of the "Burrito Supremo Penis." They attempted to verify this claim by stripping down to underwear and diving in the pool at a barbecue here in Tucson a couple of weeks ago. This revealed the one point of contention within this band that claims to be a "family" who all "care about each other" and write all the songs communally: the boxers versus briefs war. Two go for boxers, three briefs. This is so divisive that they have agreed it must never be brought up during rehearsals or official band functions, but it's an issue that could turn out to be their Yoko Ono. Sludge Nation opens for Lifter at 10 p.m. Sunday, October 27, at Club Congress, 311 E. Congress St. Tickets are $3 at the door. Call 622-8848 for information.

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