“Let’s Go and Shoot Things!”

“We didn’t want to do anything too typical of Sweden,” says the Hives’ Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist while idly leafing through a copy of Blender. “It would be easy to blow the money in record shops and bars like the Vines did, but there’s no challenge in that. We wanted to do something different. But non-Swedish.”

In keeping with this plan, he agrees that the Hives will probably not be taking part in the proposed herring-eating/porn-watching marathon that Blender was so looking forward to. “That would just be a normal night at home for us, anyway,” he shrugs, then falls silent over a thought-provoking Courtney Love photo spread.

As the praying mantis–shaped singer expertly examines the photographs — “Ooh, my God” — Blender takes the opportunity to study the environs in which the Hives have chosen to spend their $848. (This translates into roughly 6,500 Swedish kronor, which is currently in a roll large enough to choke a walrus.)

We are in a compact log cabin some 40 miles from the Hives’ Stockholm base. The walls are covered with the massive skulls and antlers of deceased red deer stags. The cupboards are piled high with guns and ammunition; one contains a large quantity of fortified wine. Have the Hives decided to spend their cash on some sort of drunken killing spree? “Put it this way,” says bassist Dr. Matt Destruction, “I like my steak fresh.”

Welcome to the Skoklosters Skeetklubb, a private shooting and hunting club set amid scenery that easily could be, and most likely has been, the backdrop for many a mineral-water commercial. Silvery lakes, dense pine forests, rolling meadows, the works. And all under a perfect Simpsons sky. On the drive up here, we had to stop to let a moose and his family cross the road. So far, so Swedish. “I guess so,” says Almqvist, enigmatically adjusting his interesting hairdo. “Anyway, let’s go and shoot some things.”

Thankfully, the things in question are small orange discs, which will be propelled into the air at considerable speed. The Hives’ job is to gun the mothers down in the most terminal manner possible. “I’m looking forward to this,” declares the ferociously blue-eyed guitarist Nicolaus Arson, who, even without a high-caliber rifle in his hand, has a mildly psychotic air about him.

The four Hives (fifth member Vigilante Carlstroem is on paternity leave) troop across a flat field to the shooting range in matching white satin rockabilly jackets, tight black trousers and white patent shoes, carrying half-cocked shotguns. It’s The Deer Hunter meets Grease 2!

Having adjusted their bang-muffling headsets and loosened up with a few warm-up rounds, the Hives’ sweet Swedish manner is soon forgotten, and battle commences. Jackets are discarded, brows glisten with sweat, guttural Scandinavian swear words are uttered.

Almqvist is having trouble adjusting his eye-line and cleverly improvises by positioning some spare headphones over his left eye. Drummer Chris Dangerous impressively nails four flying orange targets in succession, prompting his bandmates to speculate over his former life as an assassin. Dr. Destruction, it is decided, was probably just a workaday sniper.

Unsurprisingly, Arson proves to be something of a crack shot and strikes an alarming firing-squad stance whenever it’s his turn to burn cartridge. It is later agreed that Firing-Squad Stance would make a fine title for the Hives’ forthcoming, and as yet unnamed, album.

Even at the mixing stage, their third collection of short but savage songs would not disappoint the faithful. “The sound is a little more ’80s power-pop in parts,” explains Almqvist, an excellent day’s shooting behind him. “But the feel is the same. The main difference is that the last album said, ‘I am right’ and this one says, ‘You are wrong.’”

As we approach the Swedish hamburger restaurant Max, all that is wrong—aside from some sore shooting shoulders—is the amount of Blender’s money the Hives still need to spend: With midnight approaching, there is more than $400 remaining in the pot.

Luckily, Sweden is an expensive country—a can of beer costs $10—and they have little trouble blowing $100 on conspicuously healthy-looking burgers, salads and luminous green pear-flavored milkshakes. But it is late and, despite the city’s liberal demeanor, Stockholm closes early.

En route back to town, the Hives stop at a 7-Eleven and each purchase a copy of Yellow Paper, Stockholm’s comprehensive classified ad magazine. “We’ll call one of the vendors and buy something for ‘the band who has everything,’” grins Arson.

Papers rustle and suggestions for potential purchases fly: an iguana, a set of golf clubs, a leather table, a motorized skateboard, a water-damaged turtle tank. Almqvist pauses at the gigs page. “We could buy five tickets to see Sting and not show up,” he muses. “The empty seats would be good for his ego.”

Chris Dangerous finds a nice pre-owned paper shredder. “We could buy that and then shred the rest of the krona,” he offers, to snorts of derision.

Almqvist wants to find a long movie-theater line and pay for everyone, including themselves, to see a late-night film, but he fears that we have missed the last screening. Instead, he stops a group of kids on their way to a party. “Sing me a song and I’ll pay you,” he says, and on cue the 15-strong bunch launch into Elvis Presley’s “(Marie’s the Name of) His Latest Flame,” followed by a sterling version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” complete with harmonies.

As the song reaches its emotional climax, the Hives move among the mildly bemused singers, handing out krona bills until they’re down to their last $50. The street-corner choir murmur their thanks, depleted funds replenished, and head off to “buy booze, dude!”

Kind to a fault, the Hives’ gangling frontman donates the remaining notes to the drivers who have patiently endured today’s huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ for bargains. “Buy your wives a nice gift,” he smiles, before remembering that he is still on promotional duty. “Such as the Hives third album! Out this July! They’ll love it!”