When I was a teenager, salvation came in the form of a grimy little basement in Boston called The Rat.

Technically, it was The Rathskeller—but nobody called it that. It was the kind of place where the walls were covered in stickers, the floor grabbed at your sneakers, and the stage felt more like a speed bump. You didn’t go to The Rat to admire the music. You went to feel it. Loud. Fast. Sweaty. Like a full-body reset.

One Sunday, I saw CIV—a hardcore band I kind of knew. Didn’t matter. The amps buzzed. The crowd surged. The pit exploded.

And then came “Can’t Wait One Minute More.”

The pit split open and in stepped Mr. Mosh—baseball cap, goatee, built like a linebacker. I didn’t move. He did. I hit the floor like a sack of bricks… and I was grinning the whole way down.

Some stranger pulled me up. Someone else handed me water like it was communion. No words. Just a shared look. You’re one of us.

That’s what punk was. Not just the music—but the ritual, the wild community, the strange sense of belonging.

And for a long time, I thought that feeling was behind me.

Then a book showed up in the mail.

Blood of Gods: Metal. Mayhem. Wine.

Yes, that’s the full title. And yes, it’s exactly as strange—and brilliant—as it sounds.

Blood of Gods is a handmade, lovingly chaotic wine zine that dares to mix the world of heavy music with serious wine devotion. It’s part essay collection, part underground comic, part backstage pass to the lives of musicians-turned-winemakers and the wine lovers who still know how to make a little noise.

You won’t find the usual polished tasting notes or wine ratings. What you will find is storytelling, obsession, grit, humor, and a community of people who love wine with the same intensity that others love power chords.

A Few of the Characters

Inside Blood of Gods, you meet people who’ve taken the long way to the vineyard:

• Charles Smith, a former band manager who turned Washington wine upside down with bold, punchy labels and wines that taste like guitar solos.
• Maynard James Keenan, frontman of Tool and winemaker in Arizona, whose Syrahs carry the same layered, intense energy as his music.
• Bill Gould of Faith No More, who fell in love with a Balkan brandy called rakija and brought it back to the States because it was too wild to leave behind.

They’re not making wine to impress anyone. They’re making it because they can’t not.

Why This Book Works

The beauty of Blood of Gods is that it doesn’t try to make wine more elite—it makes it more human.

It’s about the kind of wine you drink because it’s weird. Because it surprised you. Because it reminded you of a night you didn’t expect to remember.

And because, underneath it all, wine—like music—is about connection. It’s about sitting with something long enough to feel it. It’s about presence, ritual, and finding meaning in a glass (or a guitar riff).

Why I’m Telling You This

The older I get, the more I’m drawn to things that feel real again. Wine. Music. Stories that don’t try too hard. People who care deeply.

Reading Blood of Gods reminded me that the wild, chaotic joy I once found in a punk pit still lives on—just in different form. It might be in a glass now instead of a dive bar. But the spirit is the same.

So if you’re looking for a wine experience that isn’t stuffy or precious… If you want to hear from people who care more about flavor and feeling than pretense… If you’ve ever loved music that made your bones shake—

Check out Blood of Gods.

You don’t have to be into metal. Or punk. Or even wine, really. You just have to be into feeling something.

Where It Could Go Next

If I have one wish for Blood of Gods, it’s this. Keep expanding the tribe.

There’s a whole universe of subcultures—skateboarding, surf punk, DIY scenes, garage kids running from the suburbs with a six-pack and a scratched-up deck—who drink wine too. Who care deeply. Who never saw themselves reflected in the crystal-and-caviar version of wine culture.

Bring them in.

And take this spirit beyond the page. Give us longform stories. Give us podcasts with gravel-voiced winemakers and vinyl collectors. Let these interviews breathe. Let the tangents go long. I’d listen to a full episode on Bill Gould’s rakija rabbit hole in Serbia. Twice.

Wine deserves more weirdos. And Blood of Gods is how they find each other.