Turisas - Interview - 2008

“Do you consider yourself a metal crowd?” shouts fur-clad Turisas frontman Warlord (Matthias) Nygård to Bloodstock’s crowd who cheer in affirmation. “That was kind of lame for a metal crowd. Yesterday we were in Germany and they were much louder.” He says before raising his unfeasibly deep voice. “I said ‘do you consider yourself a metal crowd!?’” On hearing unfavourable comparison to Britain’s historical nemesis, the crowd scream ‘yeah’ again. “That’s better. Now do you consider yourself a battle metal crowd? This is after all Bloodstock.” The audience roar in agreement, anticipating Turisas’ majestic signature tune and title of their debut album, ‘Battle Metal’.

Arriving at the crack of dawn this morning in transport somewhat more modern than a longboat, Turisas are here in the heart of the Derbyshire countryside, second on the Bloodstock Open Air bill before headliners Stratovarious. Metal Hammer joined Warlord Nygård, guitarist Jussi Wickström, drummer Tude Lehtonen, keyboardist Antti Ventola, bassist Hannes Horma, violinist Olli Vänskä and accordion player Antti Laurila on a sunny and surreal day of beer, fur and obscure instruments rarely associated with heavy metal (recorder anyone?).

Finishing their military anthem the song that spawned a genre, the band’s accordion player, Antti Laurila stands centre stage in a towel, his red and black pigment covering every inch of his body and shaven  head; only his ginger beard dangling un-painted like a pendulous tail in the breeze. Leaning into the microphone he announces that an all important part of Finnish culture is the sauna (which he pronounces ‘sa-oona’). To the right of the stage we can see steam rising and notice that there is a hot brazier surrounded by fellow Finns, guitarist Petri Lindroos and drummer and Janne Parviainen of Ensiferum, (who preceded Turisas on stage). 

“Being in sauna iss very boring,” Antti explains, in English more broken and accented than Matthias’ own handsome vocabulary and deft tongue. “So you haff a couple of frents. Ant de most impordant thing iss dat ve are nakit and dat ve haff beer.” 

With can in hand he pulls up his towel to reveal his auburn willy-tinsel, summer schlong and pink posterior, and joins his compatriots in flailing themselves with the traditional vesta (birch branches). 

And the band plays on.

The sun is setting over the flat horizon of the East Midlands in a large and cloudless sky, and as pagan Viking octet Turisas finish, ‘Sahti-Waari’, another triumphant folk metal opus, the day’s light fades a little more and the mood becomes sombre and sober. The war-painted eight-piece look to their glorious leader.

“Some of you might have heard the unfortunate news,” says Matthias referring to the announcement that their guitarist, Georg Laakso has left the band to recover from injuries sustained in a car crash last October. “He has been practically dead many times in his life already, but he is still alive. Maybe not here with us tonight, but he is still alive,” he raises his voice from a morbid rumble to a victorious roar. “I want to raise a toast to him, for never giving up hope, for that is the true battle spirit. Let me see your beers,” he demands, before citing the lyrics to the band’s fraternal song, ‘One More’. “One more for our brothers who fought beside us. One more and forward again. Once more, we'll fight and conquer. Until we meet again.” Crushing his raised beer can the whole band launch into the galloping anthem, their fallen brethren always with them in their racing hearts and courageous heads. 

“It was a hard decision to make,” says Matthias with a look more piercing than a harpoon through a thawed Cornetto, as he explains his guitarist’s departure from the ensemble. “I haven’t really spoken about it much yet,” he continues the rotund and motherly barmaid at The Swan (the nearest nicest pub to the Bloodstock field in the grounds of Catton Hall) brings Matthias some interesting looking gastro-pub dish of pasta and leaves.

“The relationship is already quite distant because he has a completely different life ahead of him.”

The mood is already sombre, the band being exhausted after a German performance the previous day and having arrived with the powerful sun this morning; asking exactly what happened to their guitarist brings it down even further.

“It was a freezing night in Finland last October, and he drove off the road,” he explains, probably unaware that his ice-white irises, tiny pupils and almost lidless eyes have a magnetic iridescence, like some enchanting jewel from a movie starring Harrison Ford. “He drove right through the elk fence at the side of the road and stopped some 50 metres into the forest. He was lying there unconscious in the freezing night.

“The first reports of the car crash started to come in a round eight am the next day,” he says looking like any other long-haired Scandinavian; without his racoon-skin stage gear and stripy body-paint. “A police patrol arrived and left. They didn’t find his body because - whether he crawled or was thrown - his body was metres away from the car. By the time they found him at about six pm, he was nearly frozen. His body was only 20.1 degrees. 17 degrees colder than normal. 

“When they finally moved him, his heart stopped beating,” he says fixing us with his tractor-beam eye contact. “He was in intensive care for months. We didn’t know whether he was going to make it or not.”

Looking down the long table the band and their crew demolish plates of food and pints of coke, the subdued hunger and tour fatigue turns into reinvigorated camaraderie, and the Finns become more rambunctious, and even ask top see the desert menu. 

Matthias finishes his lunch and we head into the baking sun outside for a cigarette. Wearing a black jumper and with his jeans rolled up, the slender Finn sits surrounded by his battalion of musical warriors in their civvies, and explains the current situation:    

“He is in a wheelchair now,” he pauses and draws a long hard lungful of smoke into his lungs. “He can’t move anything from the chest down. He can move his hands but he can’t move his fingers properly. Whether he gets any better has been up in the air for a long time. He is hoping to rehabilitate but the progress is so slow that we don’t know whether he will fully recover. Most likely he won’t walk or play guitar ever again.”

“I spoke to him just this week,” he says, the trauma of the situation evident in his face. “He said it was obvious that he had to leave the band.” 

And so Turisas soldiers on, their fallen brother always in their minds, as they travel to foreign lands, lay waste to audiences, make metal mercenaries of their audiences, and build a glorious Finnish empire of earth, fire and steel from Manchuria to Mesopotamia.

Arriving at the Bloodstock site before Turisas’ performance, Yorkshire symphonic sci-fi death metallers, Bal Sagoth have just finished their epic set. It’s after six o’ clock but the heat is still decidedly un-English, as Turisas greet Ensiferum in hearty Finnish tones and locate their portakabin dressing room. Outside in the arena those who aren’t old enough to raise beers, wave swords and a number of people are daintily prodding red and pink sun-exposed shoulders. 

The band have been provided with some rocks and leafy birch branches for their sauna brazier, and derive much hilarity from how different their rider must be from that of other bands who just want beer, crisps and Jack Daniels.

For a band like Turisas, getting ready is more than a simple t-shirt change and a tune-up. Each member of the band spends around two hours donning costume and applying make-up. The costumes themselves would inspire horror and outrage from animal rights activists, made as they are, almost exclusively from animal fur and leather. The band may take donning a petting zoo’s-worth of hide and painting all but their bikini line black and red in their stride, but to the outsider this archaic and bizarre display of ritualistic human grooming is more than a little incongruous, as they sit on plastic chairs in their prefab dressing room of corrugated iron and lino. Less self-conscious than the stereotypically prudent Brits, the Finns strip out of their 20th Century garms and into their handmade waistcoats, loincloths and sack trousers, striping the parts of each they cannot reach themselves.

“We used to use real cows blood for the red,” Matthias explains with a grin, tightening a bungee round his knee-high fur gaiters. “But it got too smelly when we were on tour for long periods.”

Matthias explains that the band tend not to drink before shows – at least not heavily – but that they more than make up for it afterwards. And in fact on this occasion most members are holding aloft cans of Carlsberg Export by the middle of their set.

On the way for a piss we bump into Wesley, 11, from Derby, with his freckles, studded wrist band unfeasibly large Bloodstock t-shirt explains that he was only lucky enough to get in because both his parents work security: “I haven’t seen Turisas yet, but the people here who’ve seen them before say they’re wicked. I’m well looking forward to their set. I’ve seen them walking about back stage, they look fucking mental.”

The band leave the stage having slain another 1,000 Anglo Saxons.

“I crushed my can above my head in excitement,” beams Matthias afterwards. “I feel bad because I made the stage soaking wet for Stratovarious. I hope it isn’t too slippery for them.”

The band drip sweat and paint and beer, and head to the signing tent before the usual ‘band take a breather, shower and change into Lenor-soft white towelling dressing gowns’. Outside the tent is a queue of more than 200 established and recently-converted Turisas fans, more than a few wearing plastic Viking helmets and plaited wigs, and carrying toy swords and axes. There’s even some faux woad. Since the band started their set at 8:15 the sun has completely disappeared, and with it went the heat. While the band may have as much flesh on show as they have covered up, not only have they worked up a sweat onstage, but the fur has the tog value of a goose down duvet, and they sit merrily glugging beer, signing swords and bathing in quiet pride at fans’ compliments that fly around like a sky full of returning swallows.

So what is it about Turisas that inspires such devotion? 

“I think it’s about seeing us live,” says the singer as he signs another CD. “There’s a big difference between the album [‘Battle Metal’] and seeing us live. I don’t see the point in a live show being exactly the same as the record.”

He smiles at yet another fan, and ponders, looking unsuccessfully for an answer, before modestly proposing: “We are not a band who come on stage and plays to the audience simply to have them watch our egos. It’s more that we are there to entertain the audience, and the audience becomes part of the show as well. The better the audience, the better we are and the better the show.”

It’s gone midnight, and only the last stragglers are left on site and. Still covered in the flaking remains of his war-paint, Matthias says: “Turisas is one big party, and it’s a party not just for the band to enjoy. Everyone is invited.”