Why is all The Hives’ songwriting credited to the mysterious Randy Fitzsimmons?
A viscous wall of rock ‘n’ roll and wicked wit greets anyone who comes into contact with Howlin’ Pelle, Chris Dangerous, Vigilante Carlstroem, The Johan and Only, and… Arson. This madcap collective have crafted out their niche as one of the most entertaining acts in music as The Hives. But who in their fold is the mysterious Randy Fitzsimmons—the mythic name littered throughout their discography.
It all began when each member of the rock band to-be received a letter in the post. A strange musical Svengali of Swedish rock ”n’ roll by the name of Randy Fitzsimmons instructed each member to convene and form a garage band. Under his management, they would rise beyond the reaches of ABBA into a state of rock delirium never once witnessed on Earth outside of laboratories guarded by Alsatians with Mohawks.
So, at the behest of Fitzsimmons the band came together in the hot summer of 1993. Although technically most had played together before under a different name and sound, this was a new alluring opportunity for them. Fitzsimmons also already had tunes in mind for them. Begging the pertinent question: Who the fuck was this ‘Randy Fitzsimmons’? (The most hands-on/hands-off manager of all time).
The mystery went even deeper when this new leaf did indeed provide a new lease of life and they became a hit big enough to be signed to Burning Heat Records and offered the chance to record some music, only for Fitzsimmons to be given sole songwriting credit for the resultant material. Man or myth he was one of the finest purveyors of exhilaration in an entire era of rock ‘n’ roll. So, when further hits followed, people dug further into the rabbit-hole of this mystery and found that the songwriting name was actually trademarked to the unassuming Arson—on the surface, the least sibylline member of the band. Had Fitzsimmons been hiding in plain sight behind a guitar?
For a while, the band denied this tedious bit of paperwork tying Arson to their very own be-cloaked Col Tom Parker. And then came the announcement of their next album later this summer, The Death of Randy Fitzsimmons. With this came the most hotly anticipated press release since press releases began.
“As the album’s macabre title hints, the band’s extended absence from the studio has been no hiatus but rather a horror story. The Hives now admit they have not seen nor spoken to their founder, mentor and
songwriter, the perpetual limelight-shunning Randy Fitzsimmons, since the release of 2012’s Lex Hives,” the band explain in a statement. “Following the recent discovery of a hidden away obituary and cryptic poem in the local paper of the Northern Vastmanland town where The Hives are from, the band members were led to Fitzsimmons’ tombstone.”
“Upon digging the freshly interred ground, the band found not a body but instead several tapes, suits, and a piece of paper bearing the words ‘The Death Of Randy Fitzsimmons’ typed up as if a title. Whether a hoax or Fitzsimmons’ opening gambit, remains to be seen. The uncovered tapes included the demos that would become the twelve new songs on The Death Of Randy Fitzsimmons.”
On a more musical note, Howlin’ Pelle adds: “There’s no maturity or anything like that bullshit, because who the fuck wants mature rock’n’roll? That’s always where people go wrong, I feel. ‘It’s like rock’n’roll but adult,’ nobody wants that! That’s literally taking the good shit out of it. Rock’n’roll can’t grow up, it is a perpetual teenager and this album feels exactly like that, which it’s all down to our excitement – and you can’t fake that shit.” Fitzsimmons is going out in the same style he started.
And that, in short, is the beauty of his electric brainchild. Like a benevolent version of that twisted bastard Dr Frankenstein, this Randy old bugger zapped rock back to a more primitive form then faded into the shadows, his final act adding the pantomime of devilish mystery to proceedings – bringing just a dash of depth to this surface pizzazz to hark it back beyond the modern blitz of neon to the dark days of Robert Johnson of old and the strange way he whisked rock into existence from the get-go.
