“Some people go, ‘Are you calling Monster Magnet art? It’s fuckin’ dumb, stupid rock and roll,'” Wyndorf says. “But at the same time, it’s an extension of what I do. It’s my favorite stuff mixed in with my emotions of today. It’s like showing off my room when I was kid. When you’re 12 years old and you want to show somebody your room, you’re like ‘Look, here’s my posters, here’s my music. You want to get into it?'”
Indeed, Monster Magnet’s libido rock is about the most fun you can have with your clothes on. Hot ‘n’ heavy guitars, lyrics that conjure up all manner of erotic fantasia, and more leather than a motocross rally make Monster Magnet a longhair’s (wet) dream come true. And with modern rock so damn glum, this kind of release is more necessary than ever.
“I can’t believe there are so many bands that are so fucking dour,” Wyndorf says. “I hate to sound like a prick, but if you guys aren’t going to get 150 percent into this, then get the fuck out of my way. I’d love your record sales, because then I could make a show that would literally be like Apocalypse Now. Burn everybody down.”
And that’s about the only time Wyndorf speaks of being down.
“I like my decadence with a smile. I like it with joy, spreading enthusiasm; it’s fun, it’s positive.”
This article appears in May 30 – Jun 5, 2002.