The band spent the pandemic crafting and honing their sound to a polish during the years of lockdowns and unrest the pandemic brought. What that is, or what to call it, is, again, not easy. “Grunge Renaissance”? “Post-Alt Rock?” Trying to classify them according to genre might earn the vague moniker of “alt-rock” or as far afield as “post-rock.”

Instead, their sound might be best captured by Parker’s vision for his lyrics. “I’ve always been fascinated with scale, majesty, immensity,” he muses. “I imagine my own death would ideally either being lost at sea or in the forest.” Look no further than the band’s name for a prime example: “Lone Kodiak” evokes the grand intimacy of a powerful animal lumbering through a vast, unforgiving wilderness.

On an endless landscape, one can’t help but feel like everything is infinitely far away, and yet feels close enough to touch, looming distantly right in front of our eyes.

This dissonance is reflected in the sonic structures the band wields. With a fusion of raw intensity and ethereal melodies, Lone Kodiak conjures a sonic landscape that echoes the captivating allure of legends like Deftones and Hum. They arrange driving riffs, atmospheric textures, and haunting, introspective lyrics so that the familiar collides with the unknown. A solitary boat on the ocean; a sole predator ambling across plains – the grandness and scale of those scenes are captured in the group’s work.

The grief and loneliness of those tableaux are not without inspiration. Raised on a remote island in the Pacific Northwest, with a childhood punctuated by bereavement and hurt, Parker is no stranger to the harsh cruelty that life can dole out. Nor is any member of the group, really. Whether it was bassist Alden destroying his hand in a motorcycle accident mere hours before a gig in 2018, or the band wrapping up recording their demo tape the day before the first round of pandemic-prompted lockdowns, LK have enjoyed a disproportionate amount of terrible luck.

And yet where most would flail, lash out, or blame, the band instead hunkered down and worked. If there’s anything the group knows, it’s the solace of hard work. The group spent countless hours in their remote jam space, learning each other’s idiosyncrasies, honing skills, experimenting with tone, style, delivery. Those countless days allowed them to refine their sound and focus on playing in the room rather than in the studio. With that level of prowess comes a performance that explodes onstage, erupting with energy and channeling all their worst demons into a cathartic, turbulent experience.

Without an army of clones and familiar faces to align themselves, the group have resigned themselves to blazing their own trail. This doesn’t mean the group are averse to connection; quite the opposite. Personable and forthcoming, effusive and genuine, they eschew the arrogance and swagger that tends to accompany the leather-jacket-white-v-neck-tee scene. Instead, they remain humble, focusing on rehearsal, recording, and performance. When the pandemic blew up those last two avenues, the band decided to lean into rehearsing.

Originally formed in 2016 by Dainéal Parker and Alden, they didn’t match with anyone musically until they found drummer Josh Harris. By that point, they’d released an EP and some singles, but those were remnants of a band trying to find their sound.

“It was definitely a ‘producer EP’; the producer was very heavy-handed in that process. He did a good job, but we didn’t write it with a lot of confidence,” as vocalist Dainéal Parker explains.

The group have been down the path of adhering to trends and norms before. It’s largely what fuels their frustration with the pay-to-play schemes and neutering of bands that run rampant in the Hollywood scene.

“We were doing that with music for a while where producers and managers and people were like, ‘Oh, you guys need to do this and you need to do that.’ And we weren’t having fun doing music at all because we were just doing what we either thought we were supposed to do or were told we were supposed to do. And the problem with that is: we weren’t very good at any of it.”

Firmly entrenched in the gritty, historic neighborhood of East LA, the band have fortified their defenses against industry bullshit with a code: a list of the group’s values, their mission statement for all future projects. Armed with purpose and deadset on how to go about doing it, they’re now stoking the flames of their desire for taking their show on the road. Speaking about their post-incubation plans, Harris says, “We didn’t wanna have to play catch up. We wanted to be tight as a band once the shows started happening. And I feel like we’ve done that.”

The band has done everything in their power to stay humble, authentic, and as tightly wound as possible. Just like a serpent coils before it strikes, so too is Lone Kodiak readying itself for the oncoming storm of activity in their near future.