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Metal Hammer Article Jan 2007 - Access All Areas
They don't just have a sordid extreme metal past. Swedish metalists Deathstars are, as David McNamee discovers after 24 hours in their world, a bunch of dirty cunts. Man in a raincoat: Sam Scott Hunter.
"Give me your hand." No. "Come on, give me your hand. It's OK." No! don't know what you're going to do with it. "Close your eyes..." Um this is a bad idea. - I close my eyes and Nightmare Industries, producer, songwriter and guitarist with Swedish cyber-metallers Deathstars, takes my hand and drags it across and up. It feels like a crater of denim, shielding a soft plateaux of fabric. My fingertips scan the surface, mapping out a lump like a soft, fleshy egg. Urghhhl Get it away!!
The assorted Deathstars awake at this hour of the morning on their tourbus crack up. At the end of my fingertips is the brand new Deathstar six-stringer Cat - a beaming Cheshire cat grin on his face - and the gaping, crotch-hovering hole in his jeans.
A raven-haired 18-year-old with a Byronic appetite and bionic cheekbones, Cat looks like a manga-made vision of the ultimate rock'n' roll star. He looks like he should be in Backyard Babies - if they weren't so fucking ugly; or LA Guns, if they were underage vampires with a carefully measured penchant for doing each other. Razor-beautiful and without a shred of humility; incandescently arrogant and utterly in love with himself; young, dumb and ready-to-cum - Cat is a walking weapon. Its just a shame that he's got the cock of a baby. Except smaller.
Deathstars are one of the weirdest success stories in Swedish metal. Their unashamedly bombastic debut, Synthetic Generation, catapulted the group into the pop league in their homeland, though the UK has been slow to catch on to second album Termination Bliss. The first venue of this tour, Kingston's Peel, is a strange and tiny little place hidden in the suburbs. Most of the building is actually a dedicated strip club, linked to the venue by a small bar housing an incongruous mix of teen goths and dirty old men.
Charismatic Deathstars leader Whiplasher Bernadotte emerges from a day of fine wines with "some girlfriends in Notting Hill." He is nursing a smashed wrist bandaged ostentatiously in leopard print. "So, what have-you been doing today?" he questions his bandmates in their tiny kitchen-turned-dressing room. "I have been practicing sex. I actually got better today, but you guys are still the same!
"I do not want anyone reading Metal Hammer to think Deathstars are good in bed!" Whiplasher continues, whirling on your correspondent. "I am very, very lousy at sex. That's why I need as much... practice... as I can get!." Someone's missing. "Where is Skinny?" he enquires of the absent bass player. "Um, I don't think you should go on the bus right now...," someone advises by way of a response.
When Skinny arrives, he's not alone. Oh, man. Harmony Hex. "I walked onto the bus and, suddenly, there's Harmony," Drummer Bone W Machine mimes a frantic downward squatting motion. "Humping Skinny!" Skinny is a gangly, gothic flamingo of a man with an almost preternatural handsomeness. Twirling around his knees and groin, like a darting blonde firefly, is a Kewpie doll in cowboy hat and goth boots - a teeny red dress just covering the region between her arse and boobs.
Harmony Hex is a porn star. She was, Skinny says, "given" to him by Nightmare, after she contacted the group through MySpace. Harmony grinds against and tongues the bass player, before rounding on the nearest convenient band member - pushing her breasts into their face or reverse-crunching her groin into theirs. As Whiplasher sprinkles blue glitter onto his wincing features, in preparation for tonight's show, Harmony plants herself in front of him, bending over and parting her arse cheeks for him to rub glitter into
her no-no hole. She blatantly wants to fuck the whole band and it's making everyone uncomfortable.
Led through the strip club gallery of gyrating girls to the mighty fuck-call of' Welcome To The Jungle', Deathstars arrive onstage. Clad in military uniforms - and sub-corpse paint, they look like a commando Kiss. Whiplasher submerges the pain of his broken hand -
smashed last night on Cat's guitar following a mid-song snog - with fist-pumping audience commands. When one young man yelps in excitement at 'Blitzkrieg Boom', Whiplasher camply indicates him and purrs: 'You didn't scream for me like that last night, little boy. Why is it for you the power of the music must outstrip the pleasures of the flesh?."
It's total Rocky Horror. Just with powerchords and songs about fucking corpses on speed. The agenda is not serious, but the execution totally is - has to be. Stage left, the shirtless Skinny and Cat entwine,their tongues tickling and lapping at each other. Kingston
goes fucking mental.
"Oh my God, Cat looked so fucking sexy
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