by Niklas Göransson

Shaped by war, betrayal, and ghostly soundscapes, Lori Bravo learned the world offered no shelter. What began as fascination curdled into obsession – and eventually, transformation. Nuclear Death became a vessel to the voice that was always there.

 

LORI BRAVO: People say kids are innocent – not me, man. By three or four years old, I already understood mortality, and that awareness never left. I’ve always felt death lurking, just out of frame. Never had the, ‘Everything’s gonna be fine!’ mindset. Fuck that, I knew better.

As an ‘army brat’, Lori Bravo spent her first years at various American military bases across Europe, including a prolonged stay in Heidelberg, Germany. In 1969, at age three, her family moved back to Chicago. Soon after, Lori’s father – a veteran of the Korean War – volunteered for deployment to Vietnam.

LORI: He just flat out said, ‘I’m going to war.’ As a master sergeant, his job meant keeping younger soldiers calm – kids who had no clue what they were heading into. None of them did, really. The authorities would broadcast casualty lists on television; I remember my mom and I sitting there, watching the names scroll by.

The Vietnam War – a conflict spanning from the mid-1950s until the fall of Saigon in 1975 – claimed the lives of more than 58,000 American servicemen.

LORI: I was just a kid, but something clicked in my head. That’s definitely where my morbid fascination with death began. It wasn’t because I lost relatives or experienced death firsthand – so what else could it be? Honestly, I’m grateful; that mentality shaped me.  Without it, I wouldn’t have accomplished what I did, artistically.

When did music enter your life?

LORI: Back in Germany, we had military radio – one hour of classical, the next country, then something else – so I picked up an eclectic taste pretty early. When we returned to the States, I was suddenly hearing everything popular in the 60s, from Julie London and THE DOORS to Donny Osmond and Loretta Lynn.

Once settled in Chicago, Lori’s father bought a high-end Pioneer stereo: big speakers, turntable, stereo – the full system, complete with a mic input and microphone.

LORI: Once someone showed me, ‘Hey, plug this in here and you can sing along to the radio’, that was it. I’d sit there for hours, completely lost in it. I taught myself harmonies just by listening. Remember, it was the 1960s, so you had CROSBY, STILLS & NASH, THE MAMAS & THE PAPAS – those lush vocal layers. I could match every note, right along with them.

 

Around age five, Lori’s parents gave her a Halloween-themed Disney LP called “Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House” – a compilation of spooky sound effects. She’s referred to this record as deeply formative and an early spark that ignited what became her ‘dark side’.

LORI: I played it over and over. The wildest part? The bit that scared me most wasn’t ghost sounds or creepy laughter – it was a track called “Chinese Water Torture”. I had no idea what that meant until my dad explained it, and afterwards, it haunted me. Oh my God.

Chinese water torture involves cold water dripping slowly and irregularly onto a restrained victim’s forehead. While not physically violent, its unpredictability and repetition are said to drive subjects to anxiety, panic, or madness.

LORI: As for the scary sounds, I just gravitated towards them. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not like I never wanted to be a fairy princess as a child. I did that too. But eventually, my sinister side took over; it just felt natural. Nietzsche taught me to embrace the darkness a long time ago, so I’m good.

After Vietnam, Lori’s father was stationed at Fort Lewis in Washington State. In 1972, on her sixth birthday, she experienced what has been described as an emotional awakening.

LORI: My best friend back then was a little girl called Nathalie. This would’ve been before I got fat; puberty hadn’t yet come along and robbed me of beauty. When I turned six, my mom baked a birthday cake: a pink cat with chocolate frosting, and it looked amazing. She also made party favours for my classmates.

In American parlance, ‘party favours’ are small gifts or treats given to guests at birthday parties – often toys, stickers, or trinkets.

LORI: I can’t remember exactly now, but mine was special: it sparkled, had more bling, looked cooler. Then that little bitch took it; I saw her. I said, ‘Hey, that’s mine!’ but she kept insisting it was hers. Suddenly, something shifted inside me. I felt sick. I didn’t even recognise the feeling – anger. Real anger.

You’d never felt that before?

LORI: No. Which is funny, because now I’m one of the most rageful motherfuckers you’ll ever meet. And where did that come from? Well, there you go. Nathalie – supposedly my best friend – had lied to me. Afterwards, we never spoke again. I thought, ‘Well, fuck her.’ But even then, I kept turning it over in my head. I was six, and I’d just discovered betrayal.

Did you understand the concept?

LORI: Yes, I think it was my dad who explained, ‘That’s called betrayal.’ And the feeling stuck. Because if there’s one type of behaviour I’ve never tolerated, it’s treachery. Call me ugly, stupid, old – doesn’t bother me. But if you’re disloyal, if you don’t show respect? Fuck off.

 

Later that same year, Lori’s family relocated to Phoenix, Arizona.

LORI: I’d often sneak out of my bedroom while everyone else slept and turn on Channel 45 – one of those cheap, black-and-white TV stations airing wild stuff in the dead of night. One time, Woodstock came on, and I was glued to the screen.

Woodstock: 3 Days of Peace & Music is a documentary chronicling the famous 1969 music festival in upstate New York, featuring performances by artists such as Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, THE WHO, SANTANA, and CROSBY, STILLS & NASH.

LORI: About five minutes in, Jimi Hendrix appears. And I’m thinking, ‘Who’s this slick motherfucker?’ Then he starts playing “The Star-Spangled Banner”, and I’m just mesmerised. Back then, before VHS, you couldn’t rewind. Missed something? Too bad. You had to lock it in your mind and study whatever you caught.

From that point onward, Lori watched the channel religiously, sneaking out nightly to see what other discoveries awaited her. One evening, she saw Jimi Hendrix again – footage from the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival, where he famously set his guitar on fire. That same broadcast featured Janis Joplin performing “Ball and Chain”.

LORI: The only Janis song they ever played on the radio was “Me and Bobby McGee” – great tune, but probably her most relaxed vocal performance. Sure, it’s powerful enough, but nothing compared to “Ball and Chain” live. Once I saw that, it was settled. Sing rock and roll? Check. Learn guitar? Check. That became the plan.

Music already ran in Lori’s family, as her father had once been a first-chair jazz trumpeter – the lead player who carries melodies and sets the tone for the entire brass section. After joining the army, however, he gave up musicianship entirely.

LORI: At some point, my mom figured he might want to try guitar, so she bought him one. But he had no interest in playing, so it sat untouched in the corner. Eventually, I picked it up. The first song I tried to learn was “Beth” – a KISS track I’d heard on television.

In October 1976, Lori saw KISS on the Paul Lynde Halloween Special. The band, wearing their iconic make-up and stage outfits, opened with “Detroit Rock City”.

LORI: I remember watching it thinking, ‘What?!’ I’d never heard anything so heavy on TV before. KISS were smart. “Beth” somehow became this magical hit – Peter Criss singing that ballad got their foot in the door, and the band could perform something heavier as well.

 

How did you go about learning to play “Beth”?

LORI: More than anything, I wanted to mimic the piano part – the way it carried the melody behind Peter Criss’ vocal. I’d hum it out and try to find those notes on guitar: ‘Oh, there it is.’ Once I located them by ear, I looked at the guitar neck and thought, ‘I can draw that.’ So, I did.

Draw? You mean some kind of tablature?

LORI: No, I literally drew out the fretboard, old-school style, marking dots where my fingers go. I never learned tablature – don’t even talk to me about that <laughs>. I’d sing through the melody: ‘Do, do do do…’ and then figure out the middle section, where the piano shifts and blooms.

Originally a simple demo by drummer Peter Criss and guitarist Stan Penridge, “Beth” was elevated by producer Bob Ezrin, who added orchestration and helped shape it into one of KISS’s most unexpected hits.

LORI: I wrote everything out and practised obsessively. Eventually, I could play along with the record. I just kept going, constantly trying to improve; it was all I wanted to do. My parents bought me a capo – the old kind, with rubber and hard bits you wrapped around the neck.

A capo is a clamp-like device placed on a guitar neck to raise the pitch of the strings, allowing musicians to change keys without altering chord shapes.

LORI: Every day after school, I’d rush home and play. School felt pointless – boring, repetitive, uninspiring. Nothing engaged me. I’d always think, ‘This is so dull. I need to go home and do something creative.’ Guitar was where everything came alive.

Didn’t you have any friends or hobbies?

LORI: Nah, I didn’t deal with outside bullshit. No friends – which, honestly, was great for learning guitar. I always thank the fates for making me better-looking now and fat then, instead of the other way around. You know the story: ‘Oh, I used to be so cute in high school, but now I’m a big, ugly piece of shit.’ Well, flip it. Reverse it. Zip it the other way.

What did your father think of this obsession?

LORI: After watching me practise, he got serious and said, ‘If you’re sticking with this, promise me you’ll mean it. To play an instrument, you must have something to say. With nothing behind the music, it won’t work. No one will listen.’ It was something he’d learned himself as a trumpet player.

 

Meanwhile, Lori underwent formal vocal training through a district school programme.

LORI: I studied with someone who helped me build an operatic base. Knowing that opera wasn’t my goal, she said, ‘If you wanna sing rock and roll, you’ll need breath control’, and taught me how to use my diaphragm. She also explained how to place your voice – chest, head, nasal – depending on the sound you want.

Singing from the diaphragm rather than the throat gives greater power, control, and stamina. Vocal ‘placement’ refers to where sound resonates in the body; trained singers can achieve different tonal qualities by directing their voice into the chest, head, or nasal cavities.

As a teenager, Lori’s voice changed dramatically. Having initially sung first soprano, her vocal range dropped several octaves almost overnight.

LORI: Suddenly, I couldn’t sing that high anymore. I mean, I can still hit high notes now, but not the true soprano stuff. It felt almost like a male hormonal shift. Honestly, I’m grateful – being able to go so low has been a huge asset. I wouldn’t have the voice I do today if that hadn’t happened.

I’m assuming the actual technical training was also helpful.

LORI: Absolutely, I still use those techniques today, especially when mimicking someone. Whether I’m using my own voice or tapping into someone else’s energy depends entirely on the song. Some artists I naturally flow with – sadly, many are no longer alive, so I won’t get to sing alongside them… but I still do, in spirit.

Lori’s very first concert visit was the Phoenix date of KISS’ 1979 Dynasty Tour, held at the Veterans Memorial Coliseum.

LORI: Ace Frehley’s guitar literally caught fire and flew through the air. KISS taught me how crucial characters are to a band. Even if you’re not going to be one yourself, you still need that element of spectacle. Afterwards, I started sketching this weird creature, which eventually became Mr Napalm. I already had the name NUCLEAR DEATH in mind; I didn’t yet know what it would sound like, but I knew I needed that visual identity.

How does a child think of a name like that?

LORI: It came from a newspaper clipping – not even a headline, just something buried in a story. The phrase ‘many nuclear deaths’ stood out; I remember seeing those two words together and thinking, ‘That’s it!’ I didn’t know what the band would sound like, but the name felt right. I thought, ‘Ooh, okay. Keep this one in your head.’

 

The name stayed firmly lodged in Lori’s mind, gaining further shape after she watched The Atomic Café – a satirical documentary that explores the pervasive nuclear anxiety in post-Cold War America. It is composed entirely of archival footage, including military training films, newsreels, and propaganda.

LORI: Watching those bomb tests, seeing trees go ‘whoosh’, and then suddenly there’s a person sitting there, and the next frame is just their shadow? It hit me hard. The thought of being completely wiped out, leaving no trace behind, got to me deeply. You’re not even ash; you’re nothing. Like the dinosaurs. That erasure, total absence – it terrified me. It’s also why I’ve always feared being buried alive.

The way things are going, I’d wager you are more likely to perish in a nuclear holocaust.

LORI: True, but these fears aren’t rational. I think some of it may be tied to ancestral memory. Being a witch, I carry a fear of being burned. But ending up buried alive is worse. I can handle the coffin; I just can’t handle being alive in it – that’s a hard no. Anyway, The Atomic Café also sparked a recurring sleep paralysis dream, though I didn’t understand it at the time.