Division of Laura Lee: Joy division

Division of Laura Lee is happy about life, Wal-Mart

By Newt Briggs

Hailing from the frosty hinterland of mass-produced modular furniture, Division of Laura Lee bassist and singer Jonas Gustavsson has learned to appreciate the value of a good bargain. So on his first trip to Wal-Mart--an inaugural visit that took place last week in Texas--Gustavsson felt a little like Augustus Gloop, the portly German lad who fell in the chocolate river in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

"I like Wal-Mart," he says in a voice that's a combination of Steven Hawking's robot translator and the Swedish chef on the "The Muppet Show." "It's good. They have everything. I bought shampoo. I bought body wash. I bought film for my camera. I bought two candles with Jesus on them. I bought a magazine with Kurt Cobain. I bought chewing gum. It was only $13, so I like it."

As evidenced by Gustavsson's thriftiness, Division of Laura Lee is traveling on a budget, roughing it in a crowded van and shacking up at roadside motels. Whatever money the band might have made with 2002's surprise critical barnburner Black City has long since dried up on IKEA patio sets and computer games, and the Epitaph follow-up, Das Not Compute, won't drop until May 11. Like its predecessor, Das Not Compute is rife with bug-eyed rock guitar and throbbing synth-soul, but according to Gustavsson, the new album puts an antidepressant spin on the band's traditionally downcast lyrics.

"People have a tendency to call it dark and haunting back home, but I kind of like it," says Gustavsson. "It's happy to me. I mean, the lyrics are a little more upbeat these days. Not really super happy, but still, I think there's a light at the end of the tunnel this time."

Of course, it's no surprise that the Swedish quartet might be a little dark and gloomy. For every ABBA or Ace of Base that Sweden has produced, it has spawned at least a dozen church-burning, pet-sacrificing metal bands. Some have suggested that this is a consequence of the country's long, dark winters, but while Gustavsson concedes the weather can have a detrimental effect on his countrymen's sense of well-being, he primarily attributes their workaday blues to middle-class boredom.

"There's nothing really much to do in Sweden except to play music and work in factories," Gustavsson says. "There's also a lot of angry youths and drugs--all kinds of drugs. I don't do them, but a lot of people back home do. The kids want to rock 'n' roll, but they do it the wrong way."

As a result, Division of Laura Lee--particularly co-frontman Per Stalberg--has become a vociferous opponent of the sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll lifestyle. A veritable poster child for dysfunctional upbringings, Stalberg's father died when he was 14, one of his brothers committed suicide and his other brother was locked up after a long struggle with drug addiction.

"I guess we want to destroy that myth about rock bands," Gustavsson explains. "I mean, the sex part, it's all right, but it seems like people expect us to do drugs and to be really wild and to get drunk off our asses every night. But we're not really like that. We're kind of calm boys. We like to watch movies. I mean, it's okay to get drunk once in a while, but not all of the time."

But lest anyone think Division of Laura Lee is a bunch of uptight, Nordic teetotalers, Gustavsson insists they're actually a very lighthearted bunch. "We've been laughing all day," he says, explaining that the trip to Wal-Mart did much to brighten the band's mood. He further suggests that Division of Laura Lee's sense of humor is reflected in its name, which is a combination of a phrase on a package of Sara Lee baked goods and '60s R&B diva Laura Lee.

"We took a box of cookies and added some soul to it," Gustavsson says. "That's pretty funny, isn't it?"