And here we are with Scott “Wino” Weinrich’s latest band, Premonition 13. The last couple of years saw the DOOM LEGEND without a band as he collaborated with friends (and legends in their own right) Al Cisneros, Scott Kelly, and Dale Crover in Shrinebuilder and released a couple of solo albums, including the acoustic effort Adrift. But now the man who’s left a trail of awesome bands behind him like no other is back in front of a stack once again with long-time friend Jim “Sparky” Karow, with whom he’s been jamming in the California desert since his days in The Obsessed. Well, the two have taken the fruits of those labors, and a mutual interest in magnetism, Mesoamerican history, and ancient cultures, and poured it into 13, a psych-doom tapestry of simple, heavy riffs and acid-fried grooves. It is, obviously, distinctly Wino, meaning songs like “Hard to Say,” “Clay Pigeons,” and “La Hechicera de la Jeringa” contain the captivating menace of fireside stories told by the most respected, feared, and battle-scarred elder/warrior of the tribe, but there are times when Wino finds himself treading some weird n’ wild territory, like on the nine minute opener “B.E.A.U.T.Y.,” “Senses,” and “Peyote Road,” each of ‘em altered states of a proud, monolithic craft. Also of note is the way Premonition 13 dips their long grey hair into Motörhead’s dirty pool on the bloozy, tongue-in-cheek tune “Deranged Rock N’ Roller,” the daringly melodic “Modern Man,” in which Wino’s vocal prowess shimmers with the slightest pop sensibilities, and the fact that, with the exception of Shrinebuilder, this is the first time Wino hasn’t completely owned guitar duties in a band, and the consequence of freedom is evident. For some, Premonition 13 might be just another Wino band, but it sounds to me like the cult hero who left blood-drawn paintings on cavern walls all those years ago has returned to reveal their true meanings.
Motherboar The Beast Becomes the Servant
Born of Fire Records
It’s been about five years since their debut, Raising the Death Toll, so when I saw that Motherboar had finally released their sophomore album, The Beast Becomes the Servant, I said to myself, ‘Oh yeah, Motherboar, I forgot about them!’ I’m not sure what took the band so long to finally return to the fold (perhaps drummer Benny Grotto was holed up in his Mad Oak Studios the entire time fulfilling his role as the busiest producer/engineer heavy music has ever known), but I’m so glad the Boston band is back to their brutal ways. I once referred to their debut as the ‘kind of beautiful mess you’d end up with if you spent your summers growing up listening to Motörhead, Clutch, Ironlung, and Wino, kicking chickens, and picking things out of your beard,” and I suppose not much as changed other than the fact that there’s a lot more sludge to the band’s metal than I remember. It’s still awfully mighty, black and frantic, though, and leans heavy on the hardcore, so an updated reference list might include Mastodon, Black Breath, Doomriders, etc., but dig all the slick riffs and salacious solos in amongst the callous, calculated crust; you’ll be convinced these guys are hiding some kind of cock rock codpiece under their extreme, bloody, broken bottle exterior. The Beast Becomes the Servant was a long time coming, but delivers every bit the aggression, anarchy, and acridity you desire. Or I desire, anyway. I’m not sure what you’re into, but if it’s not this, you’re in trouble.
Check out the video for “Croctosquatch” from The Beast Becomes the Servant!
One day they’ll erect a rock n’ roll pantheon dedicated to attitude and sound instead of social stature and sales. It’ll be a natural history museum of sorts; neanderthals in motorcycle boots; a hall of beards; denim through the ages (its brilliance lies in its resiliency); stuffed herds of tattooed buffalo. And they, whoever they are, would be best served to hire Tony Reed as curator. Reed, best known as a musician and producer, is also a rock n’ roll preservationist. It’s not an accredited title, but it is a state of mind, a way of life, and it is in this capacity that Reed can approach his other duties with the respect they are owed.
Hence, Stone Axe. Reed’s band, founded in 2007 in Port Orchard, Washington and in which he does most of the studio work less the vocals (he leaves that duty up to friend Dru Brinkerhoff), is a nuts n’ bolts (that’s balls n’ lightning, baby) testament to rock’s classic aesthetics. Reed’s obsession with the heaviest, meanest, choicest, and oft obscure bands of the ’60s and ’70s infuses his songwriting with a golden, hairy-chested gusto. His old band, Mos Generator, sold the skies as a rocket fueled entity, a cosmic druggernaut of futuristic proportions, but Reed ultimately succumbed to Earth’s gravitational pull, and the urge to write dirt and mortar songs for past Gods was too strong to ignore.
Since its birth, Stone Axe has released two full-lengths, a 10″ EP, three 7″ singles, and a split with Sun Gods in Exile, proof that Reed’s work ethic is as relentless as his music. In fact, the start of this interview was delayed until Reed could return from working in Texas with Blood of the Sun. So there you go; he even goes whole hog for other bands, too. But the great preservationist finally put aside his craft for a moment to talk to me about his favourite songs of all time, his vinyl collection, what’s next for Stone Axe, playing the Wurlitzer, and, of course, beards.
Premonition 13
Motherboar
One day they’ll erect a rock n’ roll pantheon dedicated to attitude and sound instead of social stature and sales. It’ll be a natural history museum of sorts; neanderthals in motorcycle boots; a hall of beards; denim through the ages (its brilliance lies in its resiliency); stuffed herds of tattooed buffalo. And they, whoever they are, would be best served to hire Tony Reed as curator. Reed, best known as a musician and producer, is also a rock n’ roll preservationist. It’s not an accredited title, but it is a state of mind, a way of life, and it is in this capacity that Reed can approach his other duties with the respect they are owed.