Eivind Skogheim

He sits behind the drum kit like a Viking who got lost on the way to Valhalla and somehow ended up in a loud dirty rock band instead. Bald as hell, not a single hair daring to face daylight, but carrying a beard so massive it looks like it has its own zip code. 

And when he counts in a song, there’s no calm little “one, two, three, four.” Not a chance. It explodes out of him like a battlefield command:

“ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!”