Pitchfork

Honest to god, I was abducted by the Swedish. Like most abduction stories, mine starts on a rural county road, at about 3:17am. I was travelling across Indiana on my way to my induction at the College Football Hall of Fame. Indiana's topography is flatter than an airhockey table, so I would've seen the lights if they'd appraoched from a normal car. Blue lights and red lights and one little yellow one...

Suddenly my trunk changer began skipping with digital tourette's. SHEEP- SHEEP- SHEEP- CHEEP- CHEEP- CHIP- CHEEP. I'm an audiophile and I spent a couple grand on the shockproofing system of this trunkchanger. This should never happen. The trunkchanger floats on a compressed layer of stable gas, in a sealed womb of titanium and Nerf. The showroom guy said that it could withstand the vibrations of a 9.0 on the Richter Scale. Basically, the car could be obliterated into Rice Krispie- sized chunks before I'd lose a second of rock. I'm only telling you this because it ads to the validity of my story.

So anyway, these lights pop up around my car out of nowhere. Red and Blue and Yellow. The Fireside disc skips. I look outside and see what is undeniably the shapes of hovering Saabs. Swedes! I black out.

A needleprick in my forearm wakes me up. A blonde with chunky, viking pigtails is drawing my blood. She barks and hiccups something to other nearby hunky blondes. The room is minimal and clean and cold, with high ceilings. Stainless steel tables and stages are spaced apart perfectly. High above me, in translucent blue eliptical pods, human forms float in some sort of solution. But, wait... sweet American god... they have no faces! The blonde sucking pints from me speaks.

"Do not be afraid. We won't hurt you," she says in too- perfect English.

"But you speak?... I thought?... You're swedish!"

"We only need your blueprint. So that we may clone you."

"Since I will be erasing your memory, I will tell you of everything..."

Across the large room, four pods lower above a steel stage. The bottoms of the pods blossom open in quarters and four blonde men slide out of the clear goo. They plop onto the stage. Swedish scientists run to them with white guitars, a white bass, and a white drum set. They set up and tune.

"Yankee, observe over there," she says. "Those men are our newest clones, or as we call them, Bummelgörk. They are to be a rock and roll band. They shall be named Fireside. We abducted musicians from Quicksand, Jawbox, and Helmet, just as we did with you, and transcribed their DNA for the Fireside Bummelgörk. As you will soon see and hear, they will rock in a similar fashion. We stole the crushing, melodic- guitar gene. We stole the clockwork, pummelling- drum gene. We stole the bowel- moving bass gene."

The Bummelgörk begin jamming. Their sound is heavy and tuneful. The singer keeps perfect tune with accentless English. They do in fact sound like a cross between Quicksand and Jawbox. Actually, they sound perfect as far as the melodic, post- hardcore genre goes. They play for about 45 minutes. There's even an extra element of pop-- some vibraphones. They close with an impeccable country song.

"As you can see, we freshen them up with some leftover genes. To make them more lovable to you Americans," she says, removing the needle from my arm.

"Yes, it's quite nice. Ever since Jawbox, Quicksand and Helmet disappeared, there's been a great lack in well- executed loud rock. It's all been tainted with '70s riffs and grunge yowls. Surely all those who miss those bands'll snatch this up. I have to hand it to you. But why? Why do you do it?"

"Well, we hate to sound clichéd, but world domination. Our clone bands can mimic any style of music. We have our pop-punk bands like Millencolin. We have arena brit-pop bands like Kent. The Cardigans were us. And how else do you explain Eagle-Eye Cherry? You fools can never tell they are even Swedish! Their music slowly brainwashes you with subconcious messages to eat more fat and watch the WB Network. Soon we shall rise again and you will bow before Odin!"

"Um, okay. But why are you cloning me?"

"We need to clone some music critics. We plant them to give good reviews to our Bummelgörk. Plus, we like your silly reviews."

"Aw, thanks. I do like this music a lot. But there's one thing you didn't count on! My bionic legs!"

"Nooooo!" she screams as I break free! My heels crushes her high, smooth cheekbone. I float across the room in a squaredance of carnage, kicking scientists and Bummelgörk with resounding thwops! I spare Fireside. Their aggressive crunch perfectly matches my throat- kicking cadence. I bob my head to duck blows and to simply rock out. My legs covered in the blood and sinew of blonde nerds and Abba, I escape the lab. And it is thus that I am able to tell my tale today.

So I do recommend Fireside. But be careful! It gets in your head.