Though it hasn't rained for weeks, the skies suddenly grow dark. Rain soaks the assembled as they take a moment of silence for Timothy McVeigh. They huddle under the courthouse overhang as a rally organizer encourages the group to join the caravan of pickups headed to the Ossipee Ski Lodge for a special treat: Definite Hate. The band arrives at the rally just in time to shake hands with the president of its record label, before it departs with the caravan. Before long, it'll be time to rock.

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Josh is wiry with bright blue eyes, a buzz cut and a collage of tattoos. Rhett, the second singer has a beard, an accountant's paunch and hair long enough to comb. Bassist Dave is quiet, an electrician who is glad the band will never crack the mainstream. "If we did, I'm sure some gang in New York would want to whack a few skinheads," he says. Rhythm guitarist Ben is, at 17, the only member not in his early twenties. He politely declines to be photographed; he doesn't want to jeopardize his college scholarship. Lead guitarist Brent will be a daddy soon. He runs his hand over his young wife's bulging belly. "I'm a little nervous," Brent says, smiling, "but at least I'll have a little Adolf junior in my arms."

Josh and Brent were alienated teenage punks when they met. Brent landed in a juvenile facility before his fourteenth birthday. Josh nearly died of an overdose of pills. The two moved in together in their late teens, and their bond grew stronger when they both embraced white power, a decision that cost them most of their punk friends but brought them a new family of sorts.

For Josh, the transformation from aimless, angry punk to disciplined, angry white separatist was gradual. As a kid, he didn't know why his granddaddy wouldn't let him play with a black friend from school. By his late teens, he began to understand. Using racist teachings as his guide, Josh took his experiences—an underqualified minority beats out his girlfriend for a scholarship, black coworkers appear to get special treatment—and filed them in his growing dossier of white victimhood. He already owned the sound track, from the seminal white-power band Skrewdriver. "I had these thoughts in my mind," he says, "but when I heard Skrewdriver, it was like some big Paul Bunyan motherfucker came up and booted me right off the fence."

Josh's punk bands had never amounted to much, but Definite Hate would be different. About a year ago, the band made a demo on a friend's sixteen-track and sent it to Resistance Records. Erich Gliebe called a few weeks later. There are a handful of white-power labels, but Resistance is special, the Interscope of hatecore. Its owner, William Pierce, founded the separatist organization National Alliance and wrote The Turner Diaries, the novel that inspired Timothy McVeigh. With their website, Internet-radio show and glossy magazine Resistance, Pierce and Gliebe were offering instant visibility.

Gliebe told Definite Hate he was mailing a contract. "It was," Josh says, "the most exciting day of my life." A deal with Resistance isn't about money: Though the label paid the $2,000 in studio costs, it offered no advance, no video budget and no cut of the merchandise. Definite Hate received $1 for every disc sold. (Resistance's best-selling release, Rahowa's Cult of the Holy War, has sold about 25,000 copies worldwide.) Signing with Resistance guarantees exposure. The label secures gigs and offers the only dependable storefront for selling white-power CDs, www.resistance.com. It also provides prime real estate in Resistance magazine. By the time of its debut, Definite Hate had been featured in a two-page spread. Without a blip on Soundscan, the band received an instant network of couches to crash on, comrades to purchase CDs and fans willing to drive six hours to see a band they've never heard.