Rock’n’roll was long dead before Johnny Rotten picked up a microphone.
And a long time buried by the time Oasis chose to molest its putrid carcass.
But the spirit of whence it came still lives on in the blood of those who know its true meaning, symbols and references.
Born of the long dark winters of Norway, Årabrot was too black for metal and too avant-garde for punk, so it forged its own path.
Hewn from empty roads and the cold impenetrable depths of the fiords of its home.
A Norwegian Gothic, tales sung and stories told in screams and whispers.
With its steel guitar, a steely gaze, a sneer and a Stetson, Årabrot is the bastard offspring of Billie Holiday and Elmore James. It is The Velvet Underground if Johnny Cash was a member and Nico was able to sing.
It is Camus, Sartre, Poe and Burroughs cut-up and regurgitated in an unholy erotic mass. It is all the great bands you haven’t even heard of. It is you.
It is here, it is now and there are other bodies to bury. Årabrot is not fucking around.
Årabrot is Kjetil Nernes and Karin Park. They live in the countryside with their two children in the old church that they own. Rock’n roll is their religion.
