‘How I See It’ with Randy Blythe, lead singer of Lamb of God

Randy Blythe roars for a living. But there’s more behind the scream. He’s not the typical guy I’d usually meet, which makes him so cool—a fifty-something man like us, working to better his life in middle age.

Randy is the lead singer of Lamb of God, a Grammy-nominated metal band, channeling raw energy and truth into music that fills stadiums. Off stage, he’s an author with a powerful voice. His memoir Dark Days tackled his arrest and manslaughter trial in the Czech Republic—a raw take on accountability and sobriety. 

Now, his new book,  Just Beyond the Light, offers stories, essays, and reflections on hope and change, proving he’s more than a frontman—he’s a keen observer of life’s chaos and calm.

I first saw Randy in a viral YouTube clip, trying to get backstage without his tour laminate. A kind security guard stopped him, not knowing who he was. Instead of flipping out, he thanked her, hugged her, and said, “I appreciate you for doing your job.” That humanity—the contrast of this dreadlocked metal singer being so gracious—hit me hard.

A few weeks ago, I sat with him in his Austin hotel during his spoken word tour. He’s driving city to city with his girlfriend, sharing real stories and taking questions—not for fame or money, but to connect and create. That’s what drives him.

He’s also a talented photographer. During our chat, sunlight sliced across my face, making me squint. He paused, grabbed his camera, and said, “I’ve gotta take this—it’s fucking cool.” Now I’ve got an incredible portrait from an unforgettable moment.

These are the things that matter in midlife—unexpected encounters with guys like Randy. I’m honored to learn from him and share his story with you in this week’s ‘How I See It’.

As always, the full unedited version is available to our Inner Circle members. 

– Greg

MLM: Where are you based?

Randy: Richmond, Virginia—where Lamb of God’s from. But I chill in Wilmington, North Carolina, most of the time. No waves in Richmond, so I dip down there on the low.

MLM: Nice. What part of North Carolina?

Randy: Wilmington, Cape Fear area.

MLM: Love it. What’s the best place you’ve surfed in the world?

Randy: Ecuador or Indonesia.

MLM: I just got back from Hawaii—my first time. Hit Kauai with Laird Hamilton. That guy’s a beast at 60. He and Gabby Reese are unreal humans. Wild stories about life and surfing.

Randy: Yeah, he’s a maniac. I love surfing, but I also love living, you know?

MLM: Totally. Your book touches on mastering the middle ground—a theme I call “mastering the middle.” Midlife’s often tied to crisis, regret, negativity. I talk about standards and goals, having seen high highs and low lows. But what’s it mean to operate in the middle, not as a letdown or lack of ambition, but avoiding those wild emotional swings? You hint at that level-headedness—how do you see it?

Randy: My life’s been nuts—partied like a rock star with the best of them. High highs, crushing lows, up and down. It’s not sustainable. I used to scoff at the middle ground—boring, right? But I’ve learned that roller coaster wears you out. My dad said something once when I was younger. Everyone’s chasing “happy, happy, happy.” He was frowning one day, and I asked, “Don’t you want to be happy?” He said, “I’d rather be content.” Took me years to get it. Contentment lasts longer than ecstatic happiness—you can’t sustain that. Society pushes constant joy, but without sadness, happiness means nothing. I’m working on contentment now. And midlife crisis? Funny—I’m having a reverse one. Did the wild shit young, now I’m like, “Gotta fix my taxes, exercise, ditch the material crap.” Burned out the crazy early, so it’s time to level out.

MLM: I break it down to what you want to do, get to do, have to do. This tour, your books—is it a want, a get-to, a have-to? Driven by fans, being public, or finances? Guys often get stuck in “have-to” mode, shelving what they want or get to do. Perspective shifts that—like, “I have to work” becomes “I get to, look what it gives me.” How do you see it?

Randy: Writing books isn’t a cash grab—publishing’s brutal. This tour? I’ll break even at best. The last three California shows, I’m donating any scraps to Habitat for Humanity LA for wildfire victims—not just movie stars, working folks too. If it was about money, I’d be dumb to do this. I want the book in people’s hands, sure, but this spoken word gig’s a first. I don’t read from it—ticket includes the book, they can read it later. I tell wild life stories tied to perspective. People said for years, “You’ve got tales, do a storytelling tour.” It’s a chance to test it. My real money’s from Lamb of God—photography and books supplement a bit, but it’s pennies compared to the time sunk. Might as well flip burgers. 

The band’s my gig—nobody buys records now, so I’m a traveling black t-shirt salesman. Tours and merch pay the bills. On this run, I end with something me and Mark, our guitarist, do. He got sober six years back. Before we hit the stage, we fist bump—hard, no weak stuff, till it feels right. One night, after the bump, he boomed, “Bring forth the joy!” Now we say it every show. We’re middle-aged, beat-up—knees ache, sciatica flares, far from home, wives, kids, beds. But it reminds us: we get to do this magic thing, bring joy to thousands nightly. You can lose sight of that when it’s “just a job.”

MLM: That reminds me of a viral clip—Bloodstock, I think. Security stopped you, a woman, and you were so kind, gracious. She’s like, “This guy’s solid.” That gratitude—her doing her job, you owning your part—shines through.

Randy: Yeah, Bloodstock. My fault—I didn’t have my laminate. Left it in the dressing room so no one’d snag it on stage. We’re headlining, I’m walking up with my crew, and this polite Bristol woman says, “I need a pass.” My people go, “He’s the singer,” and she’s like, “Oh, sorry!” I’m like, “No, you’re good—this is on me.” I wasn’t hatched a rock star. Roofed and slung food for eight years before the band paid off. We’re big in our genre—if I’m lucky, no more straight jobs. But I’d swing a hammer or wait tables tomorrow. Why berate someone securing the stage? Arrogance from a little success is bullshit.

MLM: Great story. I’ve got boys, 21 and 18, and I tell them about entitlement, how lucky they are with the life we’ve built. Everyone should work at a restaurant—front or back of house. I did both. Started in the back, running food, Spanglish with the kitchen crew—didn’t fit their vibe. Moved front, dealt with customers. That split teaches you humility. Success can vanish—an entrepreneur could lose it all, start over. You talk about a toolbox in the book—what tools do you use, and what’s key for guys or kids? They get the “why”—sobriety, fitness—but stumble on “how.” I loved you skipping fancy rehab, just asking rockers who’d been there.

Randy: Perspective’s my anchor. I used to be bullheaded—figure it out myself, no help. Young guy stubbornness, asking advice felt weak. Now that’s moronic—why not tap someone who’s solved it? In Australia, touring with Metallica, I hit an emotional bottom. Great spot—big band, cool place—but I didn’t want to exist. Decided, “Maybe quit drinking?” Found James Hetfield and his sober guitar techs. They’d warned me earlier, “Dial it back.” I went to them, “Help—I don’t know what to do.” Not some shrink or Celebrity Rehab—those dudes partied like me, had real perspective. Like taking a busted truck to a greasy mechanic, not a dentist. They tuned me up, got me rolling. 

Biggest tool? Willingness to ask for help—sounds basic, but it’s huge. Now, 14 years sober, I’m not cured—one beer, this hotel’s toast. I don’t obsess over it, but my past, even the dark stuff, helps others. Those techs didn’t preach perfection—they shared their messes. People who’ve beat substance issues love paying it forward—it’s gratitude. Open-mindedness is another tool. I was a middle-finger guy—didn’t want your take. It took years to learn: work smart, not hard.

MLM: That’s a solid perspective. Listening to you, I realize that’s a tool I picked up too—talking to guys like you, learning to shut my mouth and open my ears. To get better, sharpen my edges, I had to listen, not just fire off questions. For an egotistical narcissist who thinks he knows it all, that’s tough. Putting myself in rooms where I had to engage, be open-minded—it was a struggle, but it’s paid off.

Randy: It’s not one thing over another—each fulfills me differently. Writing lyrics and performing with Lamb of God is raw emotion. I work hard on them, but a four-minute song’s about impact, not detail. Books and essays let me dig into complex thoughts. Social media’s all soundbites—grab attention fast or lose it. That’s damaging; you can’t unpack mortality in a tweet. Long-form writing gives nuance, space to explore. I start with a basic idea—like surfing—but the real thoughts emerge as I go, like this convo, feeding off each other. Photography’s different—no subjective push. Unlike lyrics or prose where I’m shaping your view, it’s me noticing what’s out there. Like surfing, it quiets my loud monkey mind. Right now, I’m seeing a shadow down your face—would make a killer portrait with that bald head.

MLM: Shoot it, man—get the shot!

Randy: I will. It’s not distracting me from this, but photography’s shifted how I see—literally. That line, the light—cool as hell.

MLM: We’ve got a group, Inner Circle, where guys share perspectives, insights, accountability. Who’s in yours? Do you share essays with the band, or is it others—like when you went to James for sobriety?

Randy: Surfing buddies—neighbors who don’t care about Lamb of God—just normal wave-riding dudes. That’s refreshing. My guitarist Mark and I are tight—talk life, everything. High school pals still around, other musicians, photographers, writers. Then wildcards—ex-Special Forces guys, pro athletes, a survival instructor, a Buddhist monk. A crazy mix, all enriching with their own knowledge bases. We trade perspectives, ask questions.

MLM: Last one—I’ve been married almost 25 years. What’s it like having a girlfriend?

Randy: I was married a long time—didn’t work out, not ugly, just tough being a musician’s wife. My girlfriend’s great—I’ve known her for 20 years, friends first. After the marriage faded, we reconnected. She’s 49, I’m 54—no 21-year-old for me. What would we talk about? I don’t get their world. It’s been solid.

MLM: Love it. Thanks, Randy—this was awesome, great for guys to hear.

Randy: Don’t move—I’m grabbing my camera. This little Fuji’s all I’ve got here.