Empty vodka bottles? Check. Vomit on the floor? Yep. Scary, overenthusiastic fans? ‘Fraid so. After 12 months and untold identikit arenas Röyksopp are still, unbelievably, on the road, promoting the indefatigable ‘Melody AM’. Jim Butler joins the Scandinavian surrealists on their tour bus and learns that if it’s Sunday it must be somewhere very cold…

It’s 5am on a bitter December Sunday morning and somewhere between a freezing Sheffield and a glacial Newcastle the night-cum-morning’s high-spirited revelries have been brought to an unceremonious halt.

Lying prostrate in the narrowest of gaps between the two sofa rests, one of which he has just rolled off for the umpteenth time, Röyksopp’s Svein Berge continues to emit the last dregs from his guts onto the tour bus’s limited floor space. To be fair, by now it’s more bile than class A puke, but clad as he is in standard issue leather jacket, surrounded by numerous bottles of vodka, whisky and brandy, all relieved of their contents, and the low drone of Jay-Z's ode to conspicuous egotism 'The Blueprint' humming away in the background Svein looks every bit the glamour-sodden rock'n'roll wastrel.

“Come on, mate," mutters one of the road crew, whose attention has been momentarily diverted from the PlayStation® gang-bang below and who is intent on ensuring that Berge isn't going to be joining the ranks of Jimi Hendrix, John Bonham or Mama Cass anytime soon. At least not tonight. ''Let's get you downstairs," he says.

In hindsight we can't say we weren't warned. Earlier, following their triumphant, if sparsely attended set at Sheffield's inaugural Auto Festival (they were preceded by hometown heroes Pulp, after all), Svein sported a yellow, Mid-West, truckers cap emblazoned with the boast 'Feel The Power' whilst larking about with Erlend Øye, Annie and Tirno from Op:l Bastards. His T-shirt stated prosaically – and something of a giveaway, this – Norway Olympic Drinking Team. And less than 30 minutes before becoming acquainted with cousin Huey, and long after his buddy Torbjorn Brundtland (''It's two Viking names'') had retired to his bunk in a drunken haze, he and bassist Ole Skauge – he with the late 70s scouse throwback perm – had become embroiled in a vodka-spitting jamboree.

That afternoon, when referring to the dichotomy of touring – the long periods of boredom interspersed with intense, albeit fleeting, highs – Svein had laughed, somewhat off the cuff: ''You can understand why people trash their hotel rooms and go to hardware stores and buy knives."

This, then, was his version of letting off steam. No knives were present, an elastic band­propelled toy aeroplane the only knee-jerk purchase in situ, but the rock'n'roll prerequisite of carnage and mayhem was definitely in evidence. The next day, though, Röyksopp – beat up, weary and most definitely dazed and confused after more than a year on the road – candidly admit that they're not interested in reviving any 21st century version of The Rolling Stones infamous on-the-road film, 'Cocksucker Blues'. This despite last night's Bacchanalian feast.

“I can't really lie to you," confides Torbjorn, the cerebral foil to Svein's enthusiasm.

Yes, you can.

“I must say that being on tour doesn't really appeal to me. It's, um ... the benefits that you get from it don't hit me in a good way."

“If we were to sort of choose between the two, being a touring band or producing stuff," Svein interjects, ''we'd definitely choose producing."

If 2002 was the year the world sold acid house back to the UK – see DJ Hell's International DeeJay Gigolos transatlantic eyeliner exchange and Brazil's salacious love affair with drum'n'bass – Svein Berge and Torbjorn Brundtland spearheaded Scandinavia's warped take on house music's enduring wiggle.

As the UK’s clubs proved to be less than super and our buzz charts spluttered to the sound of geriatric prog and reactionary deep house, Röyksopp’s ‘Melody A.M.' – released in 2001, remember – came to be seen not only as a spellbinding tapestry, weaving together beatific house, rapturous Balearica, oddball kitsch’n’funk and a sly and beguiling downtempo chill, but an act of wondrous benevolence keeping an ailing genre in the public eye.

Touring constantly helped – on their own and as support to, first, Basement Jaxx (Torbjorn: “They are so... brilliant. Their show is so physical”) and then Moby (Svein: The Moby that we got to know was very sympathetic and really nice. We shared some ideas and others we didn't'').

"We just decided to try all these things that people wanted us to do and that we also wanted to do just for the sake it,” explains Svein of their annus mirabilis. ''In order to have an opinion on things it's probably easier if you've tried it. We just thought we'd set the year apart to try all these things, and at the end of the year we'd see what was fun, what was good and what was shit."

Perched in their tour bus at the scene of last night’s misdemeanours, Svein and Torbjorn seem none the worse for wear. Torbjorn in particular is charitable and over-excited, despite it being another bleak and terminally black mid­winter evening – which, although they hail from Norway, they still can't get used to.

"But it's not like Norway, where it's fresh," Svein explains. "Here it's windy, and bitter, and damp."

"But that's OK," rasps Torbjorn. "I feel great."

You what?

"I do, I feel great," he crows in his clipped, but precise English, his lank blond fringe betraying more than a hint of sensitive charm. "I don't know why, I just do."

But you said you disliked touring?

“I think we're lucky,'' he responds, taking a swig from his bottle of water. "When you're touring you have to listen to your songs over and over again. Luckily for us, most of the songs we have just don’t get bad, if I might say so myself. You can really listen to them again and again. Apart from 'Remind Me', which I hate to perform!"

Why?

“Because," he laughs, ''I'm fed up with it."

So what are the benefits of being on the road?

Svein – some of his crazed edge neutered for the time being – taps his hands on his thighs, as if in preparation for the ceremony about to begin. ''It's a couple of things, and they're quite naïve, even silly and simple," he responds. ''I think it's fun to travel, to see places, and also to meet people. You get to see a lot of crazy shit when you travel around and some of it we'll carry with us when we go on to make more stuff."

"However, I do miss the inspiration of being at home," Torbjorn admits. ''That state of life is more ideal. For me anyway."

But can't you take inspiration from what you encounter whilst away?

"It's always been hard for us to answer questions about inspiration, because we're not really observant of the phenomenon of inspiration. I think for us, it’s just a part of us, a part of life. We don’t stop and think: ‘This thing here gives me inspiration. I will now stand and look at it for a few minutes’. It’s not like that.

Svein concurs: “It’s easier for the delta blues guitarist – who is lacking fingers and is blind and is alcoholic and hasn’t got anything – to talk about inspiration. Or the hip hopper who sold crack in The Bronx.  We don’t have these extreme lives.”

“The main inspiration for us would be curiosity, if you can put it that way, if it makes sense,” Torbjorn adds. “We just want to explore different features of life. This (he gestures around him) is definitely a result of our own curiosity.”

Thus far, this unbridled curiosity has enabled 'Melody A.M.’ to evolve into one of those albums that flatly refuses to die. Re-released last year, accompanied by a cardboard sleeve adorned with quote after quote of lavish critical praise, it's gone on to sell over 300,000 copies in the UK alone and 520,000 worldwide.

Small wonder that last November they opened that carousal of ill-begotten consumption, the MTV European Music Awards. ''Everyone we met was very nice," Torbjorn states, diplomatically. "None of my heroes were there, of course. I would react totally differently if I were to meet one of my heroes, like Erik Satie, but...” He pauses, reflecting upon what he’s just said, “he’s dead.”

Svein, though, did allow himself a wry chuckle when the leather-kecked, perma-permed, love god Jon Bon Jovi walked past. “I remember thinking: ‘This is sort of ridiculous’,” he laughs.

Moreover last month Röyksopp were nominated for a Brit Award (Best International Group alongside Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Nickelback, The White Stripes and The Foo Fighters). If they do steal the award from under the noses of their more celebrated nominees – and by the time you read this, we’ll all know – ‘Melody A.M.’ will surely eclipse its best chart placing of number nine. Plus, in March they hit America, where the Melody makers are complete unknowns.

“They're really keen for us to go over there,” mock-boasts Torbjorn. “They're calling us up every day...”

“Yeah,” cackles Svein, pretending to be on the blower. “’Hello, this is the USA. Can you come over?'”

Right now, though, preparing to hulk their arses across the States is the least of their worries. For two children of dance music's faceless revolution, their sudden brush with success has brought its own problems. Where once Svein and Torbjorn were happy-go-lucky surrealists imbued with a Pete and Dud Day-Glo warmth, they're now a little weary. 2002 has taken its toll. If cynicism hasn't taken root, they're a little less inclined to play the fools. The vexed issue of fame has come at a cost and, as they've come face to face with the inner workings of the ‘industry’, it’s left a sour taste. They’ll happily admit that their music is an attempt to shape the world a little more to their liking but unfortunately it hasn't always been possible.

Back in Norway, for instance, celebrity culture and the public's vicarious desire to absorb it seems just as prevalent as in the UK.

"Gossip has started," Svein sighs. "Stories that aren't true."

Such as?

“Things we're supposed to have done at parties. Some of them are true, but others are just completely wrong.”

So what have you been accused of?

Turning to Torbjorn, he laughs: "Shall I mention the mutes?"

''I  don't know what you're talking about!'' an incredulous Torbjorn replies.

“No, I don't either. Um, yeah, gossip is popping up and it's just strange to get used to it."

But you understand why people might be interested in you and interested in what you have to say?

“People have so many different perceptions upon how life and society should be, and we have ours.” By now Torbjorn is noticeably irritated. Despite being engaging and genial, he’s also highly wary of anything encroaching on his privacy; something he guards intently. He believes that in our dislocated world he doesn't have the right to preach his opinions, no matter how profound they may be. He reckons it distorts the music. “We don't feel people with different opinions should be excluded from the music.”

They've also encountered the 'Moby effect'. Since the bald-headed vegan sold off chunks of 'Play' to what Bill Hicks termed 'Satan's little helpers' and in the process saw his album reborn in a manner few thought possible, others have followed suit, Röyksopp amongst them. 'So Easy' currently helps sell mobile phones, and 'Eple' has aided a certain deodorant in giving you a certain effect. But in doing so aren't they just reducing the music to the level of a commodity, ready to be bought and sold to the highest bidder?

Torbjorn doesn't see it in such black and white terms. “I'd have a problem with it if it was an offensive product," he counters. “Like, for instance, would we make an advert for the Countryside Alliance? I'm not saying we wouldn't, but it's definitely something that, I mean... we just realised that getting music on the radio is such a complicated process.  It involves so much work that doesn't have anything to do with the music. And having someone from a creative environment like an advertisement agency thinking of our music, well, that's like a compliment. It's a much cleaner process of actually promoting your material."

But can you understand why some people get upset about you soundtracking capitalism's sales catalogues?

“Yes,” notes Svein. “The most common thing is like: 'Oh, you're selling out'. I mean, for that thing we did in the UK – the, er, I will not namedrop the company (laughs) but the, um, telephone thing – 'So Easy' contains a Bacharach & David sample, so we didn't really get money for it, so it is a promotional thing. In the US we'd never get on radio; it's really corrupted, you have to buy airplay, so...”

“Unfortunately for an artist, it's becoming more and more difficult to live from the income of sales," Torbjorn says. “As sales go down worldwide there's got to come in some other form of economy to balance it out. Not wanting to give your music to adverts is a bit like trying to recreate the old days, and we are definitely not sitting here waiting for the good old days. In an ideal world we wouldn't do it, but...”

So did you get any free phones?

Svein: ''No. Maybe Burt Bacharach did. We certainly made him a bit richer."

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Backstage at Newcastle University though, such concerns are temporarily allayed. Despite it being a Sunday, the symbiosis between band and crowd moves effortlessly into fifth gear. Never mind the Sabbath; Röyksopp rock like Black Sabbath, Svein bashing his drum pads like a latter-day Keith Moon, pulling rock star poses and flirting with the crowd, whilst Torbjorn hammers his keyboard with all the flamboyance of Elton John, wiggling his hips a la prime-time Rod Stewart.

They might have deliberated over how to translate their epic sonic majesty into a live context but the crowd drool over their jagged but soulful strand of punk disco. As does Dan Ormondroyd from support act FC Kahuna. “It's like fucking Radiohead,” he enthuses of 'Don't Give Up' and soon to be re-released single 'Eple'. “The way they're zoning out. Magic.”

The celebratory air doesn't subside post-gig when Svein, towelling himself down whilst munching on a chicken drum stick, is confronted by a jubilant ‘fan’.  Andy – for it is he – has a glint in his eye and wants a signature. A signature that, inexplicably, he wants to read: ‘Fuck off, Andy’.

“You know, I downloaded your album from Napster," he divulges. “I hope you don’t mind. I did buy it in the end, though."

“Don’t worry,” Svein responds. “I do it too."

Seconds later, and with Andy politely escorted from the dressing rooms, Torbjorn appears beaming.

“Some girl asked me to sign her t**s,” he yelps. And did you?

He shoots a glance that is pure cheek, but tempered with an air of innocence. “Of course.”

Two hours later, he has a confession to make. The room, thick with fragrant smoke, waits for his revelation. He regales us with a tale of how when he was a child he had seen a falling star and, true to custom, had made three wishes. At 27 all his wishes have long since come true.

“I wished for a sampler, to release a record and to have a girlfriend."

“And you have all three?

“Yeah," he laughs. “I have many samplers, released many records and have had many girlfriends.”

Röyksopp: they may get used to this rock'n'roll lark yet.

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