Michael “Bam Bam” Sversvold, 57, died on May 11, 2024, after a long illness. As he was to many people in Phoenix and across the world, he was my friend, and I will miss him. Phoenix will miss him. The punk rock world will miss him, because as a founding of Jody Foster’s Army (JFA), and a member of countless other bands, Sversvold was legendary.
To write that he was an incredible drummer is an understatement. I’m a bass player and to us, musicians like Bam or are mythical creatures. You might spot them in nature, but you’re never quite sure if you really saw what you think you saw. They exist on a plane most of us can’t understand, and when you experience them, you're simply left in awe.
Michael Sversvold was more than just an inspiring and spirited drummer, though. He was funny, and had a way of disarming you with humor the minute he sensed tension in a conversation. Bam was the teenage turbine that propelled JFA to national prominence, and if YouTube existed in the 1980s, he would have been a huge star. He was a walking reality TV show just waiting to happen.
Almost every punk rocker in Phoenix over 35 has a Bam Bam story, and most of them are true.
Sversvold was talented, inventive, innovative and quick. Not only could he play fast, but he picked up new songs faster than anyone I've ever seen. If you’ve ever listened to the early JFA records, you can’t deny his ability to set a frantic pace while staying in, moving around and ruling what is often referred to as “the pocket.” Michael Sversvold never met a drum beat he didn’t like or couldn’t make better, because his playground was behind the drum kit.
He was also a legendary couch surfer, as well. A piece of advice that someone gave to me when I was in my 20s was this: “Never let “Bam Bam” stay on your couch. He’ll be there for three months.” I was careful to follow that advice, but there were many who didn’t heed it and learned their lesson.
Sversvold got away with extended stays on sofas all over town because was charming. Many of my friends did their best to help him succeed, hoping he would find that elusive gig that would make him a rock 'n' roll superstar, but it never quite came to be. The talent, showmanship and personality were there, but ironically, the timing was never quite right.
For the last several years, Sversvold lived with his beloved mother, Joanne, as he dealt with a myriad of health issues due to an autoimmune condition. To hear him talk of his mom gave you a good idea of where he got his giant heart and loving soul from, and she's currently in the thoughts of an entire music scene. I hope she knows how much we all loved her boy.
Sversvold was in a lot of bands over the years, and all of them were better because of him. He had a way of elevating all of the musicians he played with, too, because when you played with Bam, you didn’t want to disappoint him. On several occasions, I got to jam with Bam and we even did a set together as members of Blanche Davidian about 10 years ago at Hollywood Alley. It was a blast to work with him and during our drives to practice, we would talk about how to make the songs tighter.
It seemed like Bam just saw and felt music on a different level. I learned a lot from him, and there are countless other Phoenix musicians who could echo that sentiment.
I first really saw him up close at a show in 1985 at The Mason Jar (now The Rebel Lounge). A band that I loved called Bootbeast Carnival was playing and Sversvold came up and stood next to me during their set. Of course, I knew who he was because even then, he was a legend.
As Bootbeast Carnival (which featured Sversvold’s longtime friend, Jim Andreas, from current local standouts No Volcano) was doing their thing, I kept looking over, trying to act cool, to see if Bam Bam was still there. What I saw was mindboggling to 15-year-old me: Sversvold was air drumming perfectly along with Bootbeast Carnival’s Phil Riggins.
Every snare hit, every tom, every cymbal … he moved his hands and the sound from the stage matched them.
He also caught me looking at him and he gave me a look that made me feel like I was in on it, too. We were both caught up in the sound of a hugely underrated band and enjoying every minute of it. Sversvold might have been in many of the coolest bands to ever come out of Phoenix, but he was also a fan of local bands and supported them liberally.
As much as I loved him in JFA, I was almost equally smitten with two of his other 1980s bands, The Harvest and Rabid Rabbit. In September 1985, I saw the Harvest play with the Vandals and Descendents, along with Joke Flower, at Party Gardens, the old Phoenix Wax Museum. It was my first time seeing The Harvest and I thought they stole the show.
It was also an opportunity to see Sversvold playing much heavier music than I was used to seeing him play. JFA was fast and tight and incredible, but The Harvest was a different animal. Sversvold unleashed a much more muscular side of his musical personality. When I listen to “Under Your Spell,” The Harvest’s track on the 1985 Placebo compilation, "More Coffee for the Politicians," I can’t help but get a little giddy.
Sversvold really put the "bam" in Bam Bam on that one. He does this incredible thing on the floor tom keeping time in the intro that has stuck with me for almost 40 years now. It’s a simple thing, but it was just so Bam. He’d be back there, at Harvest gigs, twirling the drumsticks, grinning and looking supremely confident.
And why not? The Harvest, at the height of their powers, were amazing. I was bummed when they broke up, but it wasn’t long before Rabid Rabbit was born. Sversvold was behind the kit for another local supergroup featuring the late Vince Bocchini (Dirt Clods/Van Buren Wheels/Thee Unfortunates), Tony Karaba (Sversvold’s band mate in the more recent Asses of Evil) and Alan Anderson.
Rabid Rabbit were the “it” band in Phoenix for a few years, and deservedly so. Near the end of my senior year of high school, they put out "Technicolor Yawn," and it was the new local record to have. My buddy Michael Stewart and I were pretty obsessed with them and even borrowed an old '80s video camera his late mother, Karen, owned to film Rabid Rabbit and Mighty Sphincter one night at CRASH on Seventh Street.
Watching Sversvold in both bands that night was wild. We got to watch sound checks and set up the camera. It was so cool to feel like we were a part of that night. For me, it was a game changer. I knew I wanted to be a part of what those guys were doing. They could have acted like they were annoyed with us, but it was the opposite. They seemed stoked that we were there and wanted to film them.
Rabid Rabbit burned brightly during their all too brief time together, but it wasn’t the end of the road for Sversvold. He moved on to a thrash metal band called Soothsayer. As cool as the other cats were in Soothsayer, I loved watching Bam play when I saw them, and also the time we shared a bill together opening for Dr. Know in Tempe.
That show at CRASH was the first time I got to speak with Sversvold as almost a peer, and he couldn’t have been nicer. I tried to play it off, but I was a bit starstruck. A few years later, when our bands were playing a benefit show together, I reminded him of that night and told him how stoked I was to talk to him, and he had a big laugh about it.
Noted drummer and punk rock legend Michael "Bam Bam" Sversvold died on May 11, 2024. He leaves behind an unmatched legacy in Phoenix music history.
Giulio Sciorio
That was the most endearing thing about Michael Sversvold to me: He was a genuinely nice guy. For the last 30 years, we've been friends and there were many times when we leaned on each other a bit, both figuratively and literally.
He was a complicated guy wrapped up in a simple disguise. Sversvold almost always had a smile on his face for the public, but he was vulnerable, too. Over the years, Bam continued to play with a number of bands, but his penchant for excess with drink and substances had humbled him a bit and, from where I stood, muted some of his ample talent. It was sad to watch, but seeing his humanity only endeared him to his friends while making us vigilant regarding his health.
During the last few years, the question, “What’s going on with Bam?” came up a lot among his friends. It was easy to love the guy and even easier to care about his well-being.
I will miss the random phone calls from Sversvold that always started the exact same way. “Mr. Reardon,” he would say, “This is Bam Bam.” I always called him Michael, so I would reply, “Hello, Michael.” He’d chuckle and then, wham, that day’s topic of conversation would commence and an hour or so later, he’d wrap up by saying, “I gotta go. Gimme a call later, though.”
Like many, I’m sad I won’t get another one of those calls. I love that he never really finished them because he knew you would talk some more later.
I’m glad to have known him and I’ll certainly miss watching him play drums. There was no one better in this or many towns. We were very lucky to have had him and he loved that he belonged to us.
There is also, though, a big, comfy couch in the sky with his name on it. Peace to everyone out there who is missing him in this time of transition and thank you, Michael (a.k.a. Mike, Bam and Bam Bam), for everything you did to make music in Phoenix so much better. This scene owes you a huge debt of gratitude.
At 1 p.m. on July 20, there will be a memorial for Michael “Bam Bam” Sversvold at The Rhythm Room 1019 E. Indian School Road. There will live performances by several local bands including Fat Gray Cat and Peace Through Power, who will be doing several Rabid Rabbit songs.
