In the midst of a momentous 2012 which saw sludge goliaths High On Fire release their sixth studio album, De Vermis Mysteriis, founder Matt Pike, one of the most influential musicians in modern metal, entered treatment for alcohol rehabilitation.

For years Pike had been a dog for the drink. It didn’t just cause him to forget lyrics, licks; he’d black out for whole shows. “That’s not good,” he says, lifting his jacket and fishing through the pockets for an electronic cigarette. “At a certain time I had a fine line, I’d be buzzed but I wouldn’t get fucked up.” Over time the line receded, and after drinking his liver into submission, he decided to back away from alcohol altogether. He’s been clean since June.

As we sit down in a darkened corner of Manchester’s NQ Live, Pike looks weathered, beyond his 40 years. But with his sobriety comes an unfamiliar clarity. He asks who the interview is for. I answer, and ironically it’s my words that seem slurred. Ghost Cult. “Goat cull?” Ghost Cult. “Go-kart?” There’s an immediate discord between his drawling Californian diction and the languid twang of my Yorkshire tongue. I try to enunciate clearly and without error. Eventually Pike nods in cordial acceptance. I still don’t think he knows who I was.

Pike’s rehabilitation concerned not just lowly fans; his troubles attracted the attention of more distinguished disciples of sludge. Writer and comedian, Rob Delaney, who has himself grappled with alcohol addiction, addressed an open letter to Pike, praising his resolve and wishing him well. It’s a heartwarming sermon, something Pike gratefully acknowledges, beaming at the mention of Rob’s name. “Someone printed it out and brought it to me, because [in rehab] I wasn’t allowed to be on the computer,” he says, impulsively stroking his trademark chops. “I really appreciated it. That guy’s awesome.”

Pike’s treatment followed the release of his band’s most fantastical album to date. De Vermis Mysteriis chronicles the story of Balteazeen, the time travelling stillborn brother of Jesus Christ, who relives the past through his ancestor’s eyes. Though serious about his craft, Pike remains playful when further pressed on the narrative influences of the album. “Something like that,” he chuckles. “I incorporated all the mysterious things I read, all the occult things. I just put it all into this one story.” It’s a story which borrows from the writings of H.P. Lovecraft, Psycho author Robert Bloch, Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian, and of course, the Bible. “That’s as metal as I could fuckin’ possibly get.”

Historically, metal has a tempestuous relationship with religion, typically depicting its more macabre aspects and often mocking its teachings. Pike calls upon Christianity because it’s contentious. “What’s more controversial than Christ? It’s the biggest thing on Earth.”

Pike is no stranger to the elastic properties of religious narratives. Pioneering doom acolytes Sleep relayed tales of druidism, philosophy and the Old Testament from within clouds of weed smoke. When Sleep disbanded in the late 90s after the troubled release of their third LP Dopesmoker, its members would go on to form two very different bands. Pike would quickly form High on Fire and years later bassist Al Cisneros and drummer Chris Hakius — who has since left music — would form Om. The two bands are yin and yang, with contrasting approaches to music and religion.

Om place contemplative devotional mantras amongst delicate, sparse and repetitive rhythms. High on Fire twist and disassemble religion before threading it with outside influences and coating it in aggressive, dense slime.

Both bands approach religion in different ways, “but it’s all philosophy and theology,” says Pike. “I study comparative religions. Hence, my version of God and the universe and the beings that we share space with, multidimensional beings, aliens and stuff like that, it’s very different to Al’s but it’s the same approach. It’s experiments in your head.”

When the experimental natures of Pike and Cisneros combine the results are hypnotic yet unpredictable. Sleep reformed in 2009 and have been playing sporadic shows since. As Cisneros took to the stage in Leeds last May, Pike adopted a position in a disabled elevator between the upper area and stage floor. For five minutes he went up and down in the elevator, thrashing his custom nine-string guitar while myself and an army of fans looked on and laughed. “Oh yeah. That was fuckin’ retarded. That was the best show. I planned that all afternoon. It was so fuckin’ funny. I was fuckin’ cracking up, every time I’d go back down in the elevator I’d be fucking laughing my ass off.”

We laugh together as Matt tightens the strap on his knee brace. But this seemingly impulsive and outlandish act is something Pike limits to Sleep. “That’s something that I wouldn’t do with High on Fire. It’s not a theatrical band. We’re very serious. But with Sleep we can do whatever we want and fuck off. We can play one note for two hours. That’s the beauty to it.”

Between High on Fire, Sleep and its precursor Asbestosdeath, Pike has been an active musician for over twenty years. I wondered what it feels like to be one of metal’s most revered elder statesmen, and whether he could hear his influence on other bands. “Oh yeah, dude. It’s cool. It’s flattering. If I influence someone I did what I set out to do. I didn’t set out to be some fuckin’ pimp, a millionaire on MTV. I set out to make music that inspires other musicians, music that will last a long time. A lot of people are one-hit wonders but I know my music will be around for a really long time because it’s quality. We don’t put out shit. I don’t put fillers on records just because I can.” After leaning forward, holding my gaze and speaking intently, Pike reclines in his seat and lets his eyes wander before applying lip balm.

Faced with the prevailing volume of the ongoing soundcheck, the interview winds down as we discuss Jethro Tull, High on Fire’s first shows and Pike’s recently stolen iPod. His health, the most important issue in question, is undoubtedly sound. Subtle though they may have been, the signs exhibited by Matt Pike throughout my time with him indicate the mindset of a man who cares about his health. His lips aren’t cracked, his knee is strapped and his lungs are clear. Well, clearer.

Pike partied for forty years, drank as a form of self-medication, and by his own admission “fucked” himself up. But now he’s clean, and his sobriety reinforces the reverence with which fans look to him. “I’m trying to stay strong and keep myself from falling into that void again, and I’m filling my idle with making better music. That’s the most important thing.” Matt Pike is a man who pushed his body to its limits only to reclaim control. I’m sorry, Matt. You were wrong; that’s as metal as you could possibly get.

Sean McGeady

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