Steve Jordan stood at the edge of the rehearsal room, holding a pair of drumsticks that had once belonged to Ola Brunkert. No cameras. No stage. Just the quiet hum of old amplifiers and the ghost of rhythms long since played. He didn’t say much — just tapped twice on the snare and whispered, “For Ola.” The sound barely echoed, but it was enough. Enough to summon memories of studio nights in Stockholm, of Ola’s steady hands driving songs that lit up the world. Steve closed his eyes and let the silence stretch, not out of grief, but respect. Because some musicians don’t leave with a crash — they leave in time. Measured. Precise. And unforgettable. He sat down at the drum kit Ola once used — still tuned the way he left it — and played nothing flashy, just a soft, slow rhythm, the kind you don’t hear, you feel. As the room filled with invisible music, Steve imagined Ola smiling from the control booth, nodding like he always did when the groove was just right. This wasn’t a eulogy. It was a reunion — one beat at a time.
Tucked within the shimmering pop landscape of ABBA’s celebrated 1976 album Arrival, the song “That’s...