Visibility was nil. We were sliding down a snow-covered mountain and were surrounded by the most dangerous of all winter's creatures: the Tennessee driver. I knew I was going to die somewhere between the crest of the mountain and the Monteagle rest area. Each new set of headlights in the rearview mirror was a signal that Death was in fact nipping at our heels. As each four-wheel-driving lunatic drove past us at speeds inappropriate for four inches of sudden, untended snow, my teeth clenched and I double-checked my seatbelt. As we later passed those lunatics — inevitably overturned in a ditch down the road — I breathed a sigh of relief that the roads were just a little bit safer, but I knew Death was knocking at my car door. I had made my peace with the universe.
Of course, I had probably invited the hand of mortality — the one I could feel on my shoulder. I'd invited the universe's cruel humor and the end of my existence earlier that day when I said, "Well, I saw Wolves in the Throne Room. Guess I can die happy now." My most metal-loving buddy and I had made the 12-hour trip to Atlanta — four hours there and eight blizzard-y hours back — to catch an all-day metal fest, which is the sort of thing you have to do when you live in the relatively metal-deprived Music City. But we hadn't considered that we'd be risking our lives to get back. Was it worth it to lose your life for a day's worth of bludgeoning blast beats and monster riffs? Of course it was, especially considering that Wolves in the Throne Room were coming nowhere near our country music-ensconced county. Sometimes you've gotta make sacrifices for good music, and if that means shuffling off this mortal coil, so be it.
WITTR's take on American black metal — a codpiece- and corpse-paint-free version of the traditionally Scandinavian sound — had been the soundtrack to my brief stint in the bowels of corporate hell. Brutal enough to scare the shit out of my chatty Christian cubicle mate and beautiful and ethereal enough to keep me calm when I wanted to choke the shit out of said cubicle mate (nobody needs that many details about a co-worker's child's constipation issues), Wolves in the Throne were the antidote to the creeping soul-destruction that comes along with high-traffic carpet and beige walls. Their environmentalist bent — they live and work on a commune in the woods of Washington state — appealed to my Edward Abbey-reading inner eco-terrorist, and the guttural howls and cascading blast beats made the slow death of data entry almost bearable. Wolves had in fact been a life-saver during that job, and dying before I had to go back to work didn't seem that bad of a deal.
On tour behind the brand-spanking-new Celestial Lineage — more of a grower than their previous efforts, but a stunning piece of work nonetheless — and with their own P.A. in tow, Wolves are making a rare Davidson County appearance. It's the sort of show that hits town all too infrequently — a show as intense, visceral and exciting as a platoon of singer-songwriters sitting on a pile of pipe bombs, but without the blood spatter and chunks of faux-faded denim getting stuck in your hair. A show that will literally be shaken by epic and unremitting sounds. Fortunately this time out, getting to the Wolves show and back shouldn't be such a danger-fraught experience — though, given the rather absurd changes in weather we've been experiencing lately, I'll make sure the tire chains are still handy when I head to Little Hamilton.
Email music@nashvillescene.com.
