A wild-and-wooly peripatetic tale of unspeakable horrors (including encounters with man-eating tree people and other such mutants), Blood Mountain is a breathtaking thrill ride, the likes of which people will be analyzing for years. To fully appreciate the synapse-altering punch of Blood Mountain, packs of the stuff should come shrink-wrapped in all copies of the CD, a marketing idea Hinds would undoubtedly approve with great enthusiasm. the band recently left Relapse Records), and his answer is succinct: “Killer weed.” Weed, indeed. The only question was: What would they do next? Ask Brent Hinds to discuss the inspiration for the Mastodon’s new album, Blood Mountain (their first for Warner Bros. Between the dystopian waters theme, the split-second tempo changes that veered effortlessly from post-hardcore thrash to southern boogie, the battering-ram assault, the guitar playing that defied any rule that got in the way, it was an unqualified triumph, completing Mastodon’s alchemic transmigration from good band to great band. And then came the coup d’etat: Leviathan, released in 2004, a hallucinogenic piscine concept album loosely based on Herman Melville’s classic novel Moby Dick.
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A whirlwind of complex, progressive rock, full of hardcore punk-meets-death-metal guitars and mind-bending lyrics, it put bands like Killswitch Engage and the Dillinger Escape Plan on notice that their party had officially been crashed. It was gut instinc, and my gut is always right.” Mastodon’s first release, 2001’s EP Lifesblood, was a promising debut, but it was 2002’s Remission that made metal fans stand up and take notice. “I knew were we capable of making some killer music. “The four of us got together and we could tell we were kindred spirits,” says Hinds. As long as we win, that’s all that matters.” Winning has been in the cards for Mastodon since the group formed in Atlanta in 2002, when Kelliher and drummer Brann Dailor, former members of Lethargy and Today Is the Day, met up with Hinds and Sanders at a High On Fire concert. I’d rather pass him the ball and watch him score a touchdown.
“I don’t mind if Brent gets the glory,” he says. Egoless to a fault, he’s perfectly content to lay back and let Hinds get in the best verbal zinger or cop the craziest solo. People can tell when your music is fake, and nothing about Mastodon is fake.” Kelliher, cordial and blessed with the sangfroid of a dentist, is a custom-made foil for the expansive Hinds. Sure, it’s a business, but it’s one we’re extremely passionate about. The day this shit ceases to be cool is the day I’m checking out.” To which Kelliher chuckles-a rare occurrence-and adds: “That isn’t going to happen anytime soon. Mastodon’s coguitarists (Hinds also shares vocal duties with bassist Troy Sanders) are screenwriter’s dream of contrasting styles: Hinds’ languid southern locution calls to mind the beguiling demeanor of the aging hang-about Wooderson, Mathew McConaughey’s slacker-stoner hero from Dazed and Confused, while Kelliher, with his deep, stentorian voice and serious mien, is the “mature” member of the group, a devoted family man, perpetually concerned about finances and quick to point out that Mastodon is “a business, not a hobby.” “Yeah, it’s a business,” Hinds counters breezily, “but that ain’t gonna spoil my good times. Somewhere, there’s a buddy-movie script just waiting for the likes of Brent Hinds and Bill Kelliher. Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson can’t have all the fun.
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