“Children walk into school with guns and execute their classmates and teachers. And we just say, ‘There’s nothing we can do about it.’”
That line from my recent conversation with Randy Blythe hit me the hardest. And I have a high tolerance for pain. As I was writing this piece, a gunman walked into Florida State University and killed two students, wounding five others. It barely made the news. Blythe’s observation isn’t a vibe check. It’s not a thesis. This is where we are. This is who we are. And we need a way through.
Best known as the front man of Lamb of God, Blythe has long operated at the edge of darkness and lived to tell the story—through his music, writing, and photography. In his new book, Just Beyond the Light, he turns inward, mapping the architecture of his own experiences from 30 years on the road into something rare: An intuitive perspective that is often lost in these superficially algorithmic times. There’s no bullshit here. Only an honest attempt to make sense of purpose, connection, and the slow unraveling of modern life. But there’s also hope, and an understanding that things can always get better.
Just Beyond the Light, isn’t a rock and roll memoir. That would have been a travesty, given the depths Blythe is capable of achieving. There’s no backstage gossip. No war stories. What you get instead is something far more necessary. A hyper reflective, fiercely self-aware interrogation of what it means to live with intention.
In our conversation at Ashland Theatre, Blythe gets right down to it. We talk about art as utility, the illusion of digital connection, finding your community, and why so many people feel like they’re losing their grip on reality. His stories come from the margins—even while fronting one of the biggest metal bands in the world. But what stays with you isn’t the mythology. It’s the clarity. Because when the darkness comes (and it always does), someone has to carry the light.
Congratulations on the new book. It’s fantastic. The first thing that jumped out at me was the title. It feels like a layered metaphor suggesting that we’re not entirely in the light, nor entirely in the darkness. Are we always just existing somewhere in-between?
In reality, yes. We live in that in-between space. But a lot of people convince themselves they’re safe. They think they’re sitting inside the campfire glow: A stable society or relationship, a secure job. They have this illusion about security and stability because without it, they would probably fall into despair.
As social beings, we’ve gathered around the fire since the dawn of humankind to stay within the light. But if you want to do anything of worth, something extraordinary, you’ve got to step outside that familiar circle and search in the dark. That’s what artists do.
So, coming back to your original point— I think comfort and safety are illusions. Especially right now. And I think those illusions are being stripped away at an increasingly rapid pace. We’ve been in the fuck around stage for a while. Now we’re entering the find out stage. Those of us who are more comfortable with the darkness— who have lived on the edges, as it were—are going to fare better.
Do you feel those who have lived on the edge of darkness have a responsibility to articulate a way through?
I think as ethical and compassionate human beings, those of us who’ve lived in that kind of darkness have a responsibility to lend our voice. It would be exceedingly self-centered not to share our perspective on hard times with people who’ve just been cruising through life in a sort of blind fantasy—if we’re going to call ourselves decent human beings.
And as artists, that’s nothing new. Nina Simone said it best when someone asked her what the function of the artist was—she said, “It is the duty of the artist to reflect the times.” I’ve always felt that to be the case.
I find it hard to self-reflect in my own writing. I can observe, report, and comment—but the act of summarizing my own experiences to provide insights that feel meaningful is challenging. How deep did you have to journey to write 12 chapters reflecting the architecture of your life’s experiences?
For this book, I tried to step outside of myself. To write from a place that was more clinical, to evaluate these experiences without being too emotionally attached to them. That was difficult at times. But I’ve realized that in everything I do—writing, photography, lyrics— I’m really just trying to understand myself. I’m searching for my place in the world. What is my function?
I’ve come to understand that the most effective way to create positive change in my own life, and maybe even the world around me is by being an artist. That’s what I’m good at. That’s what I’m suited for. I’m not built to dissect the incredibly complex vagaries of geopolitical relationships—that’s your gig, right?
I’m an artist. Someone might hear me say, “That’s my function,” and think it sounds egotistical. But for me, it’s the opposite. This is what I’m good at. I’m a singer in a heavy metal band. I can write a book or take a pretty picture. That’s it. That’s all I have to offer the world.
And I get incredibly self-critical about that. Because I’m not a diplomat trying to broker peace in the Middle East. I’m not a surgeon trying to save someone’s life on the operating table. I’m not a scientist unlocking the molecular structure of cancer. Me, as an artist? Sometimes makes me feel inadequate.
But I discussed this in the book: By sticking with what I am suited for, I’ve seen very real, positive results in other people’s lives. And that’s exceedingly gratifying. So I embrace that. That is my function. I prefer to live a purpose driven life.
I think that is a problem in our society today. Too many people feel purposeless.
You wrote this line in the book: “The illusion of connection is a powerful narcotic, and like the tastiest narcotics, it’s highly addictive.” I found this powerful since we exist in an era where trillions of interactions are happening around us daily. Can you expand on this further, building on the idea of purposelessness?
Without sounding like a Luddite—because I use technology, and so do you— real connection happens face to face. You and I have cooked meals together, marched in the streets, shared actual experiences. That’s a real connection.
I’m not saying that the internet or smartphones aren’t useful tools. They are. But the connections we make, whether it’s Facebook or back in the old school days of internet chat rooms, only really matter if they manifest in the real world.
If it makes the jump, right?
That’s right, if it makes the jump. We’re social beings, and I write about that in the book. This technology gives you the illusion of connection. You can text all day long with someone, but you don’t get the same physical response. You still need real, physical interaction.
It’s a different dopamine hit.
Yes! Frank Zappa said one of the big problem with computers is they don’t have eyebrows. There’s an epidemic of loneliness. If this technology is so wonderful, it should have brought us together in all these magical ways. Shouldn’t we have reached some kind of social Satori by now? Some mass realization that race, creed, religion, political boundaries no longer matter—because we’re all just one human race?
Ultimately the technology never lived up to its promise?
And will not live up to its promise. People need to understand that. In the book, I write about my grandmother who died when she was 100 and a half years old. I interviewed her and asked what she thought the biggest difference was between the world she grew up in and now.
Do you know what she said? “People aren’t as close as they used to be.”
The human spirit suffers because of that. I think it’s one of the reasons people get pushed to extremes—into belief systems, political organizations—because they’re looking for something to belong to. They don’t have a community anymore.
Did you find a common through-line when writing, a universal theme that tied each of these experiences together?
The theme of my first book was personal accountability, illustrated by the story of me going to prison in the Czech Republic. The theme of this book is perspective. For many years, my perspective was severely altered because I was drinking and doing drugs. I’m an alcoholic, non-functional towards the end. So when I got sober, my perspective changed for the better. But that doesn’t mean you have a rational perspective on everything.
That’s what I was striving for in this book. Not to erase the negative aspects of reality or go on some sugary Hallmark quest for endless happiness, which is also bullshit. But to move through it with some sort of serenity or balance.
I start the book with a chapter about mortality. I wasn’t just trying to write a book about my emotional state; I wanted to explore universal themes. And the most primal and universal fear that unsettles us, whether we admit it or not, is death.
And that’s the through-line?
That’s our through-line. Everybody’s going to die, right?
That’s what life is. How we cope with that inevitability determines every choice we make.
And going back to the weirdness of modern times, human beings are becoming increasingly unable or unwilling to deal with uncertainty. They need everything right now. We have these mobile phones— aka “pocket Jesus,” as I call it. They hold all the knowledge in the world. But there are no answers to some things. There’s no algorithm that’s going to figure this out for you. We have to come to terms with that.
I’m 54 years old. I’m at an age where my elders—both in my family and in the music scene—my spiritual forefathers—are starting to die. Clem Burke from Blondie just passed away. All the original Ramones are gone. We’re getting ready to go to England to play Black Sabbath’s final show—Ozzy has Parkinson’s.
All of my musical forefathers are aging out. That brings my own mortality into focus. I’m in no hurry to die, but I do want to be more comfortable with it.
That’s a good seque into my next question. You close your epilogue by saying: “I’m so very grateful to have been given this life. I must not waste it”. When you finished writing those words, what emotion passed through you? That’s a human question, but also a writer’s question.
Relief! I was over deadline.
This book was more difficult than my first one. There was no classic three act narrative provided to me. So, when I finished it, there was a lot of uncertainty in me. Does this book make any sense? Did I make any sense?
It was like a road trip I went on. I want to get better as a writer. But there’s always a part of me that’s self-questioning. I’m a self-critical kind of dude.
You’re a road dog. You’re used to touring. But the kind of storytelling format you’re performing on the book tour is different from your normal stage show. What’s been the most revelatory moment for you so far?
Afterwards, at the signings. Talking to people. There’s been some exceedingly emotional moments—lots of them, actually.
The one that got me the most was a guy in Canada, who waited until the end. He came up to me with my first book in his hand and said, “I’m so glad I got to meet you. I can’t name a single Lamb of God song. I’m not a heavy metal fan. But I was in a mental hospital because I tried to kill myself, and they had your book in the library… and what you went through helped me put my own struggles in perspective”’
He burst into tears, and I gave him a big hug.
This dude doesn’t give a fuck about Lamb of God. And I love Lamb of God fans. I love my band. But that’s not why I write books. So for someone to have zero connection to that part of my artistic life and still take something I’ve created and use it in their life… that made me feel like I had done my job as a writer.
That’s a profound moment.
It was super profound for me. There were several moments like that.
When you put pen to paper, did you have a certain audience in mind when determining which stories and experiences you wanted to tell?
Some of the chapters were definitely directed toward younger people. There’s a chapter, You’re Never Alone, which I wrote because I’m exceedingly upset by all the school shootings in this ridiculous country—the only country in the world where this consistently happens. Where children walk into school with guns and execute their classmates and teachers. And we just say, “There’s nothing we can do about it.”
That’s what we’re supposed to fucking accept?
I’ve written about it with my band—there’s a song called Reality Bath. It’s from the perspective of a little girl going to school, scared she’s going to get fucking shot. That’s not a stretch of the imagination. It’s not artistic license. That’s reality.
So part of what you had in mind was young men?
Yes. Particularly young, disaffected youth who might be feeling so alienated they start considering these things. Once again, I think about what I can do in my role as an artist and writer.
It’s apparent at the end of that chapter, I’m writing directly to these kids. Telling them that they’ll get through this. And once they do, they’ll find their community. That community won’t give a fuck about their past.
I’ve been a 15 year old. But none of these kids have been a 54 year old, right? I have the luxury of experience. So I’m trying to tells these kids, “Hang in there, man. You can get through this. I was a fucking weird kid too.”
As we wind down, is there one take away we can leave our readers about the book? Besides go out and buy a copy, which they should.
I don’t pretend to have any answers to anything. I’m struggling through life just like everyone else.
But if a reader could take away one thing, I’d like it to be a question— a question for themselves: “What tools do I have, right here, right now, in my life?” Not next week, not in two years, not when I get the girl or the perfect job. “What do I have at my disposal today that I can use to improve my life and make the world a better place?”
Because we all have something. And we have to take care of the right here and now.
Final question. What’ve you been into lately? Films, books, music. Any recommendations for the readers? I saw you opened the book with a Minor Threat quote.
Of course I did.
What have I been listening to? Trauma Ray from Texas. They’re kind of a shoegazey band. I’ve also been on a big vampire kick lately. I just rewatched Last Voyage of the Demeter, about Dracula’s ship. I’m getting vampire and shippy.
Oh, Is that…?
I’m starting to more towards the fiction room.
I’ve also been reading a lot of exceedingly depressing, politically oriented books lately. I’m finishing Careless People—it’s basically a memoir by Sarah Wynn-Williams, who joined Facebook in the early days to work on international policy. And it’s just about what Mark Zuckerberg turned into. He’s a horrible simulation of a human being.
Randy, thanks for this conversation. Always a pleasure.
Thank you.
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