varg vikernes band

Alright, y’all—before we go full crypt-dweller down the rabbit hole of the varg vikernes band, lemme clear the air: this ain’t your average dude strummin’ power chords in a garage in Brooklyn. Nah, bro. Born Øystein Aarseth (who later rolled with the name Varg—yep, that’s “wolf” in Old Norse), this Norwegian cat wasn’t gunnin’ for TikTok fame or Spotify playlists. His stage name? Burzum. And if that name hits your ears like a foghorn in a Minnesota blizzard, congrats—you’ve already dipped a toe into black metal legend territory. But Burzum wasn’t just another varg vikernes band side hustle; it was a full-on sonic war cry wrapped in pagan frost, lo-fi grit, and… eh, let’s just say the guy’s résumé includes a few *questionable* extracurriculars. We’ll circle back to that.

So, what in tarnation *is* the varg vikernes band? Truth is, Burzum was never a “band” like your uncle’s classic rock cover group at the county fair. Nah—it was Varg’s solo freakout, a one-man blizzard brewin’ way out in the frozen sticks of Norway. He tracked everything: guitars, bass, vocals, drums (or a busted drum machine when he couldn’t be bothered), even those creepy-ass ambient bits that sound like your basement’s whisperin’ secrets. His 1991 demo? Man, it sounded like the devil garglin’ through a wool blanket in a snowstorm. And that raw, unfiltered mess? It became gospel for a whole generation of loners recording in their parents’ attic—kids who’d later throw up the horns to the altar of varg vikernes band minimalism like it was holy water.

“What instrument did Varg Vikernes play?”—asked more times on the internet than we’ve spilled gas station coffee on vintage Metallica shirts. The tea? All. Of. ‘Em. In the world of his varg vikernes band, Varg wasn’t just frontin’—he was a full-blown sonic hermit, cookin’ up his own runes in a cabin with no Wi-Fi. Guitars? Thick, fuzzy, soaked in reverb like a boot in a swamp. Bass? So dense it could double as a doorstop in a Wisconsin winter. Vocals? Guttural growls echoin’ like someone yellin’ from the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft. And yeah, he leaned heavy on drum machines early on (‘cause honestly, who’s gonna knock on his door in ‘92 Norway sayin’, “Hey, wanna jam?”). Later though? Dude came back swingin’ real sticks—still icy, still raw, still 100% varg vikernes band.

Man, this one trips folks up like tangled Christmas lights in July. “Is Burzum from Mayhem?” Short answer? Hard no. Long answer? Still no—but the two got tangled like your earbuds after one too many mosh pits. Varg *did* briefly orbit Mayhem’s chaotic galaxy in the early ‘90s, layin’ down bass on their cursed masterpiece De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas. But Burzum? That was always his personal frostbitten baby. Mayhem was all about chaos, blood, and theatrical doom; Varg? He was more like a lone wolf howlin’ at the moon from a Montana ridge—quiet, focused, pagan as heck. Sure, the varg vikernes band and Mayhem shared zip codes, ideologies, and even some jail time—but Burzum was never a side gig. Think of it like two coyotes on different mesas: same desert, different dreams.

Now we’re gettin’ into the part where the snow ain’t white anymore. Between ’92 and ’93, a buncha old churches in Norway went up in flames—and Varg’s name? Yeah, it kept poppin’ up like a bad penny. Did he strike every match? Jury’s still out. But his ties to the so-called “Black Circle” (a loose crew of black metal radicals) left the varg vikernes band legacy smudged with soot and suspicion. To some, it was senseless violence that twisted black metal’s rebel roots. To others? A middle finger to centuries of forced conversion—a symbolic bonfire for old gods. Either way, it landed him a 15-year nap behind bars… and Burzum? Went radio silent—like a ghost in a snowstorm.

Stuck in the clink with just a cheap synth and way too much time to think, Varg didn’t just kill time—he rebuilt his varg vikernes band from the ground up. Albums like Dauði Baldrs and Hliðskjálf traded blast beats for soundscapes that’d make a Minnesota winter feel cozy: think vast tundras, cracklin’ campfires, and chants driftin’ in from some forgotten rite. No lyrics. No distortion. Just atmosphere so thick you could spread it on toast. Purists called it “mall goth for Vikings,” but others swore it was genius—the ultimate black metal flex: ditch the noise, let the silence do the screamin’. Whether you dig it or think it’s pretentious as hell, one thing’s clear: the varg vikernes band never gave a damn about playin’ by the rules.

Hold up—“Why did Mayhem disband?” Well, they never fully ghosted the scene (they’re still tourin’ as we speak), but their early ‘90s chapter closed like a horror flick: Dead’s suicide in ’91, then Euronymous—Mayhem’s guitarist—gettin’ stabbed in ’93… by Varg himself. Yeah, that’s the gut-punch. Varg swore it was self-defense, a messy fallout over who really ran the black metal underground. The Norwegian courts? Not buyin’ it. That bloodstain ripped the original Mayhem crew apart and cast a long, cold shadow over every varg vikernes band release after. The scene split down the middle—some called him a murderer, others a misunderstood prophet who just snapped one too many times.

Before you go givin’ the varg vikernes band a “first metalhead” medal, rewind a sec. That title usually goes to Venom—those leather-clad lads from Newcastle who dropped the album Black Metal in 1982 and basically coined the whole damn genre. But sonically? Totally different—more like Motörhead on a satanic bender. The *real* icy, lo-fi, church-burning black metal we know? That blew in from Norway in the early ‘90s, with Mayhem, Darkthrone, and—yep—Burzum leadin’ the charge like a pack of snow wolves. So while Venom lit the match, it was the varg vikernes band and his frostbitten crew who turned it into a full-blown prairie fire of noise and belief.

Even today, whisper “varg vikernes band” in a dive bar full of metalheads, and you’ll get everything from eye-rolls to hushed awe. Burzum’s legacy? Massive. Bands like Wolves in the Throne Room and Xasthur wear his influence like a well-worn flannel. But it’s not just the riffs—it’s the *vibe*. The image of one dude in a cabin, rejectin’ the whole damn system through feedback and frost. Whether that speaks to your soul or creeps you out like a backroad cult, you can’t ignore it: the varg vikernes band proved that in black metal, sometimes the loudest statement is the one you don’t even say.

New to the frozen tundra of the varg vikernes band? Don’t go jumpin’ straight into the ambient synth stuff—that’s like eatin’ the crust before the pizza. Start with Filosofem (1996). It’s the sweet spot: raw guitar chaos, melodies that haunt your dreams, and that infamous 14-minute drone track “Rundtgåing av den transcendentale egenhetens støtte” that sounds like the wind itself weepin’ for lost gods. After that, hit up Det Som Engang Var for pure, unfiltered rage, or Hvis lyset tar oss if you wanna stare straight into the abyss. And hey—if you’re huntin’ more obscure gems, peep our deep dive on Morbid Saint band songs revealed. For the full buffet of sonic rebellion, swing by our Bands page, or just kick back at the digital campfire of Arisen From Nothing.

References

• https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-22231413
• https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-features/black-metal-history-norway-123456/
• https://www.metalmusicarchives.com/burzum/biography
• https://www.npr.org/2013/05/02/180101234/the-dark-history-of-norwegian-black-metal