The Hives: Veni Vidi Vicious

I always thought of The Hives as a band in and also outside the rock mainstream. Weirdo Swedes playing retro-ish garage punk that felt a little gimmicky or a little niche. Like a nordic Rocket from the Crypt. But apparently — or at least according to the quintessential tome about the critical early 2000s NYC rock ‘n’ roll revival, Meet Me In the Bathroom — The Hives were right in the heart of it alongside their brethren The Strokes, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Interpol. Who knew? The suits, the style and the absolute dedication to a specific garage sound puts these guys on that edge of the equivalent of a theme bar. But if the music is good, who the heck cares.

It was interesting to me that Ms. Hipster saw these guys at Sea.Hear.Now in 2024 and said they were incredible. Apparently they are quite the showmen. Which makes complete sense when you listen to 2000’s Veni Vidi Vicious. Even twenty-five years on. There’s an immediacy to the music right out of the gate that eschews any of the subtlety of the post-punk thing that dominated that era and the aforementioned NYC-related bands. These guys were like, “Hey, what would Detroit sound like in 2000?” Even though we’re from what looks to be rural Sweden. And, yes, we have the parallel of actual Detroiters, The White Stripes, but their second record, De Stijl, released that same year, still seemed more sunk in a sparse blues punk sound than the MC5 thing that The Hives were after. MC5’s 1969 album, Kick Out the Jams, being a weirdly foundational piece of media for me as a kid after I found it inexplicably in my parent’s record collection. But, no, these guys were out to make something… rollicking. The whole endeavor starts off a little hectic, honestly. The first couple tracks feeling almost incomplete or unfinished. But not in an unpleasant way. Just short bursts of craziness. A little on-the-edge of sloppy, but somehow not entirely careening off the road.

And then on track four, “Main Offender,” they’ve just kind of found their sound. Pushing the mic to the brink of break-up and sometimes past it. Basic chords, but not in a repetitive Ramones type way. Because they build a bunch of dynamics into their music. In fact, the organic way their guitars seemingly go out of tune and squeal and lead singer Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist’s voice creaks and squeaks with passion and backing vocals do their call-and-response, it’s like a giant out-of-control party that you know could just end badly if left to burn. And then… And then on track six (!) comes their “Song 2.” Their arena banger. Their sports anthem that I have no idea if it’s actually a sports anthem — but it certainly should be — in the form of “Hate to Say I Told You So.” A simple song construction-wise, but it feels generational in its muscularity and bold assertions that namby-pamby is no longer the way. Is it supposed to be tongue-in-cheek? Who knows. But, honestly, who cares.

Look, this ain’t intellectual stuff. It’s good old punk rock. Way less cool than the other bands in NYC at the time — despite the suits. Because in their dedication to this throwback sound and goofy band nicknames, they prove themselves to be just a little dorky. But this record has so much energy and a clear all-in attitude to the schtick. If, in fact, this is at this point what is a very long-running schtick. It’s just a record that is endlessly re-visitable, as its sound never becomes old. And never feels dated. It’s timeless and classic and something that I couldn’t imagine, after hearing it twenty-five years ago, would still feel as fresh as it did back then. Because we’ve gone through this weird cycle in rock music where nothing really sounds like this anymore, but it also feels like it never went away.