Matt Pike’s reputation precedes him.
The shirtless guitarist has kicked around the heavy metal scene for over three decades. First in Sleep, the early ’90s stoner outfit that took the joint Black Sabbath lit with “Sweet Leaf” and ran with it until their label refused to release an hour-long one-song album about a weed pilgrimage to the riff-filled lands, essentially ending the band. Then, as frontman for High on Fire, the aggressive, Motörhead-ish power trio he subsequently formed, marking a shift from marijuana worship to more out-there lyrical topics.
High on Fire has since won a Grammy. And Sleep reformed to considerable acclaim, with Third Man pressing massive marijuana leaves into special edition vinyl being a new high point for the band.
Before all that, Pike was just another kid from Southfield. You can catch him alongside bassist Jeff Matz and drummer Coady Willis when High on Fire headlines the Magic Stick this Friday in support of their latest behemoth, Cometh the Storm.
Calling from a North Carolina tour stop, Pike is running low on rest but excited to talk about growing up in Detroit and his many return trips.
Like the time he put a $10,000 deposit down on a ’64 Pontiac GTO and test drove it all day, pulling wheelies and doing donuts on Woodward Avenue in front of the Majestic complex.
“No cops came, they didn’t give a shit,” he says with a hyena’s infectious dry laugh.
He didn’t buy it, and later picked up a ’78 El Camino. “My family would call me a traitor because they’re all Ford people. I’m the black sheep. I always have been.”
Pike’s singing voice sounds like throwing a belt sander into a cement mixer. His speaking voice? That’s more along the lines of someone who’s gargled with chaw spit, rock salt, and razor blades twice a day for decades. Despite all that, Pike’s pangs of nostalgia shine through during our conversation.
He was born in 1972 and, like many Detroiters, his family worked in the auto industry. His grandpa was “a staple” at Ford, where his father also worked. When Pike was 4, his dad packed the family up for Boston to pursue an engineering degree at Harvard.
He’d spend summers on the shores of Lake Huron at his grandparents’ cottage in Caseville, doing typical kid stuff: shooting his BB gun, catching toads and carp, skipping rocks on the Great Lake. These days he calls Oregon home, where he splits an apartment with artist Jordan Barlow.
Pike recently returned to Detroit to watch stacks of Sleep records get pressed at Third Man. Sleep is a ’70s throwback band, which he cites as the reason Jack White approached the trio. “It was a match made in heaven,” given the mutual affinity for vinyl, he says. With Third Man, Sleep found new life. Fans line up around the Cass Corridor retail spot whenever there’s a vinyl drop.
Sleep also commands the biggest paydays of all Pike’s projects. So much so that it took precedence over High on Fire for a handful of years following Sleep’s surprise comeback album, 2018’s Third Man release The Sciences.
“Sleep is like its own economy,” Pike says. “That band sells a shit-ton of merch, even if it’s not active.”
That’s a boon for Pike considering financial stability seems like it’s always been a pipe dream for the career musician. His lack of attention to High on Fire, however, wasn’t without casualty. Following the Grammy win for 2018’s blistering ode to Motörhead’s late Lemmy Kilmister, Electric Messiah, founding drummer Des Kensel parted ways after two decades. In 2021, Kensel was replaced by Willis (Melvins, Big Business).
Six years between High on Fire records and one global pandemic later, Pike still struggles to get by. He’s released a solo project, toured with Sleep, reissued and remastered old albums, and sold Sleep test pressings on Instagram to make rent — anything he can do to survive. He’s started drawing and painting, taking commissions from friends to subsidize his music career.
“I didn’t expect that,” he says. “It’s kind of funny because [the art] is so 11th grade tweaker metal,” he says laughing that raspy laugh again. Depending on supplies and shipping he charges between $150 and $300 per piece.
When I ask if the economics of metal aren’t sustainable, I couldn’t have predicted his response. As I do with most musician interviews, I’d hoped to address Pike’s career and financial realities, his relationship with the Motor City, and maybe get a look into the creative process for my favorite songs.
But this is where his reputation as a conspiracy theorist came to the forefront, from his fascination with cryptids like Bigfoot and Michigan’s Dogman, to the stuff you see on Ancient Aliens. I’ve read NPR‘s massive 2022 profile of Pike and his mish-mash of contradictory beliefs that’d make Dale Gribble choke on his cigarettes. I just didn’t expect those to come up during our 25-minute call.
“It’s the United States economics and it’s not fucking sustainable,” he says. “No one can pay their rent, no one can make their credit card payments, no one’s paying auto loans.”
By his estimate, he’ll see the fruits of the latest album cycle once he’s a little further into this tour.
“I’m behind on bills just like everyone else,” he says. “I’m just a fucking regular guy until I get on stage.”
There are plenty of valid targets here. Like the unfortunate timing of starting a heavy band in the wake of nü-metal and Napster. Spotify and LiveNation make it close to impossible for artists outside the mainstream to earn a living wage, too. According to a recent Billboard report, the former is on track to pay songwriters $150 million less in royalties next year once the dust settles on its new pricing scheme. Pike’s sights are set somewhere different.
“Bidenomics… it’s pretty much like everybody needs to get no-lube ass-fucked by a huge brick. [President Joe Biden]’s got a face and a name, but it’s not him, it’s corporate… it’s the globalists, dude. It’s the fucking World Economic Forum… Motherfuckers who do not give a fuck if you’re fucked.”
But he adds quickly: “I don’t want to get too political.”
I mentioned I wasn’t looking forward to voting this November because there were no good choices on the ballot. He isn’t even sure the election will actually happen.
“I think they’re gonna assassinate both of them. And then try to get the crying side on Biden’s side. I think they’re gonna assassinate Trump, and Elon Musk is gonna put him back together like the Bionic Man. It’s biblical. When I see that, then I’ll know he’s an antichrist.”
It’s hard not to laugh at the absurdity of this response. Pike even seems to realize how outlandish it sounds. It’s the most unhinged thing I’ve heard anyone say in my 16 years in journalism.
Pike’s economic hardships made their way onto Cometh the Storm, High on Fire’s ninth studio effort. All the darkness he was feeling as the world closed in around him resulted in what could be the heaviest album in the band’s storied catalog. And it all came together relatively quickly. Lyrics and vocals for the album’s pummeling third track, “Trismegestus,” only took him ten minutes for instance.
“It just came out,” Pike explains. He’s always mined fantasy and ancient religions for inspiration. This song is no different, covering everything from Osiris to Hermes’s journey for knowledge.
“I feel like it was a little more divine. Given to me, rather than me thinking too much,” he says.
“I’m really fast at writing poetic, weird, dark esoteric shit. It’s probably my upbringing because I’m from Detroit,” he adds with an audible grin.
For him, what makes a Detroit show special is the people. Motown’s industrial backbone, much like Chicago or Cleveland, lends itself to the release offered by live music he says. Especially metal.
“Those blue-collar towns, people work harder and get crazier enjoying the music — they throw down and let all their frustrations from the fuckin’ factory out,” he says.
Sleep is a theater band, whereas High on Fire has largely made a career playing clubs and festivals. High on Fire’s most recent local show was at the Majestic in 2019. It didn’t hit capacity, but there was a healthy crowd of metalheads. Before that were sold-out shows at the Loving Touch in 2015 and the Crofoot Ballroom two years earlier.
When I saw them in 2021, it was hellacious back-to-back shows at Manhattan’s 700-seat Le Poisson Rouge — among the first with new drummer Willis. The Magic Stick holds a few hundred less.
“We thrive in that [club] environment,” Pike says. “We’re from the punk scene.”
While seeing such an act play such small venues is amazing for fans, it’s not the easiest way to make a living. Especially if you’re well beyond your 20s when you can afford to pursue what makes you happy versus what makes you money. High on Fire’s biggest gig — opening for Metallica’s 2010 two-week European stadium run — was an anomaly. Everyone in the band has at least one other project to keep themselves afloat.
I asked about what he still wants to accomplish professionally given everything he’s endured. Pike surprised me again, his answer relatable and wistful.
“I want to dig myself out of debt, and I want the fucking world to get fixed,” he laments. “The place fucking sucks right now. I want people to go back to when I grew up in the ’70s and ’80s. When kids could stay out until past when the lights come on. I just wish my childhood was still around for the kids nowadays.”
Timothy J. Seppala
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