I sang the wrong words, but I sang them loud

The memories from that day aren’t really all there. Honestly, if parts of it hadn’t been caught on video, I probably wouldn’t remember much at all. But when I watch those short clips, they help pull the moment back into focus. Even then, it’s not really images that come back to me. It’s feelings. Smells. Moods.

Heat. The smell of grass and gravel. Noise and chaos. The taste of beer in a plastic cup. It turns warm and flat almost immediately. Forbidden beer, I think. I’m way too young to be drinking it. Cigarette smoke. Marlboros. Laughter. Voices I recognize but can’t quite hear anymore when I try to remember them now.

I feel grown-up. Respected. But also small. A little nervous. I stay out of the way of the tattooed, broad-shouldered guys I’m sharing the place with. I recognize some of them from a Sännås book. Others I think I know about because people whisper their names. Stockholm skins.

I’m from Stockholm. I’m a skinhead. But I know I’m not one of them.

Not one of the guys who ruled Gamla Stan. Not one of the crowd around Höder Dart at Fryshuset. Back then, I’m one of the youngest people there and one of the newest to have shaved my head.

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Euro ’92. Gärdet in Stockholm. The beer tent. Ultima Thule is about to play, and that’s why I’m there. I probably took the train in from Kallhäll with the crew from Kungsängen. Those are the guys I hang out with. They took me in. Made me one of them.

Because of them, my first experience with skinheads is completely positive.

“You’ll Never Walk Alone” feels true. Real brotherhood — girls included. Later on, I’ll realize a lot of that was bullshit too. But that comes later.

Right there. Right then. It’s real.

And with these particular people, it’ll stay real until life naturally pulls us in different directions.

The atmosphere is perfect. Powerful. The place feels like ours. Nobody can mess with us here. Even the cops keep their distance. The watered-down festival beer washes the dust from my throat. That perfect buzz hits me … then disappears just as fast.

Some guy is selling T-shirts with VAM prints on them. I buy one and put it on immediately. Maximum provocation. A raised right arm. Our middle finger to everything.

Politics? Not really. What the hell do I know? I’ve barely become a teenager. A teenager who already feels like an adult.

Meeting that older guy standing there with paper bags full of shirts and stickers is one of those tiny details I can now see ended up shaping my future. I get his number. We’ll talk again later.

Then the music starts.

My first concert. Thule live. The songs aren’t new to me. I’m standing up front with my best friends. We sing along. I sing the national anthem wrong while it blasts through the tent. There’s video proof.

The girl I’m hopelessly in love with is there too. I know because she shows up briefly in the footage. As the camera pans across the crowd, I see a lot of faces I’ll run into again later in life.

We’re all there.

As we listen to the music and feel our blood pumping, we have no idea we’re living through the absolute peak of skinhead culture in Sweden. The politicization has already started, but it hasn’t completely taken over yet. It’s still just one part of the lifestyle. For me, it’ll be another summer or two before I choose political activism over antisocial subculture.

It’s hot and sweaty. Chain-smoking and beer. Boots stomping out of rhythm. Foreheads pressed together. Pushing and roughhousing that could turn into a fight at any second. Skinheads were notoriously quick to anger, and honestly, plenty of them were just as likely to fight each other as they were some immigrant.

But I don’t remember any fights that day.

Actually, I don’t remember much of anything after the camera catches me for the last time. What stays with me are the feelings. That perfect moment. Feeling alive. Happy. Having fun. Laughing without holding back.

I like returning to that moment in time.

Every time I do, it makes me smile. And I’m glad that young guy singing the wrong words got to be there.

I wouldn’t take it back.

-

I sang off-key, but I sang loud
sang freely and I smiled, yes I smiled
when I danced there
in the great tent with friends
from all across the city who had come
… to Gärdet in the summer of ’92
Friends — that’s what we were too,
though we didn’t know each other
friends because we were the same
with shaved heads and
steel-toed boots, always ready for a fight
… we never walked alone
We held each other close and
held each other dear and
we drank too much and
looked after the one who’d had too much
because you look after a brother
… no one was left behind
Brothers, my brothers for a while
a glorious time when I was seen
and respected
trusted even when a fistfight
hung in the air
… one for all, all for one
Age — who cared about that
Fat or thin; weak or strong
it didn’t matter at all
as long as the fire burned in your chest
as long as you stood your ground when things went off
… my honor was my loyalty
Not everyone was as lucky as I was
with the crew from Kungsängen-Kallhäll
who had something real, something right
there was love there
even if hidden behind a rough, boyish way
… I was happy then