The story continues with the drone of rain on a winter morning in a sleeping bag with a book about Suicide Girls. The drops on the roof come soft and slow, their volume screaming in the silence of awakening to the day. It’s deafening and eerie. We’ll call it foreshadowing.



I didn’t care about the words on the page like I didn’t care about her name. I knew her name. Stormy. I knew a lot more about her thanks to her singularly rare personae, her poise, demeanor and high-caliber stage acrobatics. I was staring at the stocking seam tattoos on the back of her legs below her ample posterior. Was it just last night that I met this girl I’m now looking at in this book? Staring at the pictures made me wonder whether or not the tattoos went all the way down. I pondered if they were French or Cuban heel, which made me think about an old roommate of mine who had a subscription to Leg Show magazine, which, well, taught me everything I know about stocking heels and specialized magazines for specialized feelings.



From there on the floor in my sleeping bag, I wandered into wondering, staring at the tiny thundering mountains on the ceiling above me. I had encountered Stormy while searching for the elusive Joe Preston in Portland. I wondered if Joe ever had a roommate with “particular” interests. He seems like the kind of guy you could ask about that and probably get an incredible story from. A guy that’s been in that many bands, been on that many tours, c’mon. Joe’s storied history in the Northwest scene is amazing, to say the least. He’s got a resume a mile long: Earth, The Melvins, High on Fire, Sunn O))). Joe’s influence on metal is so vast that I guarantee you he’s going to hell with a VIP ticket and a reserved seat. Not for deeds done, but because the devil’s such a huge fan. And I know somewhere in that dark and muddy past there must be a pervert with a foot fetish. Who knows, it could be him. I couldn’t tell you, because I never got to ask him. My trail ran cold in the musty confines of one of Portland’s finest cabarets, and not even the steaming pink flesh of a drop-dead knockout such as Stormy could revive it. And we were both really trying.



It’s been a week now and true to form, as confirmed by his official Web site (aka MySpace page) for his one-man sound wall that is Thrones, Joe’s very good about not returning phone calls. Some might say the best. Who could blame him though? If you had been part of damn near every project or band that had a finger in some crevice of the sound that became sludge/doom/stoner rock, would you be anxious to return the phone calls of over-zealous fanboys masquerading as rock journalists who want to nitpick the discography of your life while simultaneously pummeling you with adoration?



Me either.



That’s the beauty of Thrones. It’s isolationist. It’s a desert island of crushing scope and simplicity in all that it offers for the shipwrecked soul. It’s one man lost at sea, pitching and yawning fore and aft only trying to make it to the next day without going absolutely insane or dying of exposure. Upon arriving at the savior island’s edge, he sets about exploring his surroundings with a custom double-neck SG bass/guitar hybrid, painting landscapes with cascading waterfalls of crunch plummeting into the hidden lagoons of tone. Thrones in essence is a man who’s come to terms with his surroundings, running into the oasis to find what’s next in the grand adventure, open to the beauty of the deserted isle of self, to create with himself alone being responsible for his own survival. It’s kind of like watching Stormy all alone on stage in front of the ravenous crowd. Sure she’s surrounded, but she’s only making love to herself in the mirror, and like Joe Preston, she’s a master of the craft.



This Sunday, Joe returns from the abyss with a mission. Thrones, along with Sedan and Controlla Cola have organized the second in a series of benefits to help get The Reef back in action from the devastating kitchen fire that put the staple of downtown Olympia out of commission two months back. The benefit will be hosted by Old School Pizzeria.  So come one and come all, the suggested donation of $5 is a mere token of gratitude to be so close to the wailing screams that will be emitted from the amp stacks of the grinding slice of history that is Joe Preston and Thrones.



[Old School Pizzeria, with Sedan, Controlla Cola, Sunday, Jan. 25, 8 p.m., all ages, $5, 108 Franklin St. N.E., Olympia, 360.786.9640]