Weedeater reduce like so: A trio from the seaside city of Wilmington, N.C., the band oozes thick, incidental drones before hammering into belligerent mid-tempo thrash built primarily around metaphors involving, well, weed. More pragmatic than Sleep and more pummeling than Bongzilla, Weedeater are heavy, fluid, and direct. Bassist and frontman "Dixie" Dave Collins howls as if the bong resin covering his larynx were scraped clean with razorblades soaked in brown whiskey, and guitarist Dave "Shep" Shepherd saturates the space between Collins' meathook bass melodies with ample fuzz. Drummer Keith "Keko" Kirkum eviscerates cymbals with brutal, short-armed slaps. Weedeater traffic in uppers and downers, convictions and addictions: In short, the band lives up to its name, and its third album, the Steve Albini-produced God Luck and Good Speed, puts them near the top of a genre cluttered with bad jokes and stale substances.
But Weedeater, like their native region, run the risk of constant oversimplification. Just good stoner metal, right? But aside from their stewed roar, Weedeater's most important elements-- or those that make them more than just another band influenced by Black Sabbath and pot-- extend from their ready embrace of the South and the sort of powder-keg, rebellious militancy that thrives in the supernaturally soupy air steaming from the Atlantic. The stereotypes you're conjuring-- dudes in overalls, Confederate battle flag owners, NASCAR allegiants-- certainly apply with Weedeater, but that's wildly underselling a region with arguably the richest American history and heritage (musical and otherwise) and a band that's a welcome, essential extension of that lineage.
"These were outlaw places for outlaw music," John Beck writes in Southern Culture: An Introduction of 1960s nightclubs along the Carolina shores where black r&b bands played for young, white fans. In the South, things mix, and the results don't easily broil back into original components. As such, Weedeater are more than a shlocky weed metal band from a red state. God Luck mixes very occasional cannabis enthusiasm ("Wizard Fight") with more frequent social fuck-offs. "Untied, we stand/ Long live dirtweed/ Mankind is unkind, man," Collins grinds on the titular opener, his double pun spit like a battle cry. Weedeater are an indignant band, and Collins pleads with the conviction of a swampwater minister selling sermons about hellfire and damnation.
That's exactly what he's doing, too: Collins reclaims the South's propensity for separation for his band, and that philosophy supplies a shocking amount of venom to God Luck. A cover of Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Gimme Back My Bullets" stands proud as the middle of side two, indicative of the band's sense of self-sovereignty. "Alone"-- a banjo and bass track borrowed from one of Collins' four other bands-- ends the record's first half and offers a break in the thick metal motion. Shepard's accomplished banjo line is a laurel of authenticity, and, as Collins subdues his growl, he's carving out a personal space: "You don't know me/ Leave me alone...it's all wrong/ Too headstrong." During "Dirt Merchant", Collins confesses a modicum of craziness ("fucked in my head") then makes it clear he's not backing down from a goddamn thing. His strident, agitated delivery and the instrumental onslaught that pushes the band into its "Gimme Back My Bullets" reclamation scream pure experience.
