Photograph by Raphael Dias/Getty Images
Many parents’ Spotify accounts devolve over the years, their most-streamed track list dominated by KPop Demon Hunters and Cocomelon. But not mine. My eight-year-old son often uses my account to blast Mastodon, the Atlanta-based, Grammy-winning heavy-metal band.
At age five, my son dressed up for Halloween as Mastodon’s original lead guitarist, Brent Hinds, who cofounded the group in 2000. The costume consisted of forehead ink re-created with eyeliner, mesh “tattoo” sleeves, a rubber beard, and a blow-up guitar. The following May, my son accompanied my husband and me to our first Mastodon show at Ameris Bank Amphitheatre. He mouthed every lyric until the encore, when he conked out on my lap. A concert poster from that performance and a photograph of his favorite musician hang in his bedroom. I wish I’d thanked Hinds for igniting my son’s obsession with metal while I had the chance.
On August 20 of this year, Hinds died after his motorcycle collided with an SUV at the intersection of Memorial Drive and Boulevard. I glimpsed the scene on the way home from a friend’s birthday celebration, cringing at the Harley-Davidson’s mangled left handlebar. At work the next morning, I discovered it was Hinds. I cried at my desk, reading the tributes that flooded my social feeds. When I approached the crossroads that afternoon, I cranked up “Colony of Birchmen” and threw a rock hand sign out the window.
In the early 2010s, my husband and I would catch local hard-rock ensemble Royal Thunder at the city’s small venues, such as The Basement and The Highland Inn & Ballroom Lounge. Hinds attended those shows, too, standing out with his messy red hair, thick beard, and intense expression. He was among our peers, all people who prioritized supporting friends’ creative pursuits and nurturing our own art. But over the subsequent 15 years, a lot of us pivoted. We started families and succumbed to office jobs. Some of us went sober. Hinds, however, stayed wild.
I’ve heard from friends that Hinds’s over-the-top behavior made him an excellent party companion. His buddy Matthew Hughes, proprietor of Banker Handcrafted Guitars, encapsulated that sentiment on Instagram: “My wife once said that she always loved hanging out with Brent because he always reminded you that you were alive.” But Hinds struggled with addiction, which caused inner-band turmoil. This past March, he left the group. Mastodon released a statement on Instagram the day after his death, which read in part:
We are heartbroken, shocked, and still trying to process the loss of this creative force with whom we’ve shared so many triumphs, milestones, and the creation of music that has touched the hearts of so many.
When Hinds passed away, Atlanta said goodbye to more than a legendary guitarist; we Gen Xers and elder millennials lost the mascot of our collective memories. Hinds’s demise also forced me to soften my grip on a former version of this city and myself. When I moved here in 2005, I rented an apartment on Penn Avenue for $625 per month. On Saturday afternoons, I rode my bicycle to the Little Five Points cafe Teaspace, which—along with The Basement and The Highland Inn & Ballroom Lounge—has since closed. Atlanta is not as scrappy anymore.
I dreaded telling my son about Hinds, but he handled it well. He wiped his eyes and scampered to our backyard shed to play drums, probably working through his feelings by stomping the kick pedal and pounding the snare. I’m grateful Hinds inspired my son to appreciate music. I hope music helps him cope with life as it helped me. I believe that when my son beats his drumsticks, he’s not just practicing a new song. He’s also stoking the legacy of Hinds’s fire.
This article appears in our December 2025 issue.
