From the Archive: Parkway Drive - Winston McCall Interview

Originally appeared in Buzz Magazine, December 2008.

Kicking back in his native Byron Bay on the tail end of a massive international tour, Winston McCall, lead vocalist of the immensely popular Parkway Drive pauses for reflection. How does a hardcore/metalcore band such as theirs react to writing and record a chart-topping album? (Horizons managed to debut at #6 on the ARIA Album charts.)

“It’s been pretty good. It’s been better than we ever could have hoped.” Having that said, it wasn’t completely out of left field.

“When Killing the Smile came out it got such a good reception it was better than anything we could have hoped to have achieved with that. We were put in the position where we thought nothing could ever do better than it.”

Horizons wasn’t destined for any sort of greatness – Winston describes it as the “backup” album to merely ride on the coattails of Killing.

“Funnily enough, Horizons seems to have gone really well; the songs we play live seem to go down just as well if not better than the old songs, I like the songs more and kids seem to be stoked on it.”

Being as popular as a metalcore album could ever have dreamed to have been, was this the signal for a headlong drive into the mainstream, albeit the fringes thereof? According to Winston, underground core lovers need not be frightened by the neon lights and MTV cameras just yet.

“I don’t think so. Simply because you still don’t hear any of it played on the radio and [metalcore isn’t] definitely breaking any kind of mainstream barrier in terms of acceptance, you never see film clips or anything like that, it never has any support like that…you could hear it on Triple J or on independent radio stations. The volume of kids listening to it is testament to how big the actual following is. Other than that, it’s still definitely under the radar from the mainstream.”

Parkway Drive have built themselves from the ground up, playing in Europe to mere handfuls of people all the way up to headlining shows.

“When we went to Europe, it was like starting up again, as if you were a brand new band,” he recalls. “We’d be playing in the smallest venues you’ve ever seen without stages and holes in the roof, but now we’ve got thousands of kids rocking up and it’s just ridiculous.”

Has Winston ever considered playing something else for the band?

“No,” he insists, “I’m so, so bad. I cannot play an instrument.”

Even despite being revered for his vocals, Winston doesn’t think they’re anything praiseworthy.

“I can’t sing either. I found that I could scream at kids and I lost my voice like hell when I first started out but it was the first thing I could actually do that gave me an outlet for the passion that I had. I wanted to start a band but I had no ability to do it because I couldn’t play anything, I guess that was the only thing left for me to do. (laughs) I still can’t play anything for shit.”

He did, however, try to learn the harmonica, but to no avail. How would it fit into the Parkway Drive sound?

“Well, I don’t think it would. But it seems pretty simple. I’m finding that it’s more complicated than it looks. I find myself going ‘hee’, ‘haww’ over and over again and I’m like,‘shit, how do you actually play this thing?’”

Metalcore has long been considered the orphaned lovechild of heavy metal and hardcore music, which many fans on either side relish in deriding instead of accepting.

“Europe has the most unified scene when it comes to that. But when you go to the States, it’s broken down even beyond that. You’ll go to a show and kids won’t come out unless it’s a specific genre of music,” he reveals.

“There’ll only be a handful of bands that fit their criteria and will actually go out of their way to support. To me, I don’t really care what the label is. If it’s heavy and there’s a punk ethic, I’ll call it punk. If hardcore kids like I’ll call it hardcore and if metal kids like something I’ll call it metal. To me, the music being played is a lot more important than the label being placed on it. I don’t think pigeonholing a band will make it sound any different or any better. I don’t think that’s going to change, though.”

Parkway Drive recently re-mixed and re-mastered their first album, Killing with a Smile after only two years of recording it. Why would a band resort to re-mastering after only two years? Winston explains that it wasn’t a business decision, but as a thank you to their new fans that couldn’t find their earlier work.

“Well, our first album went out of print, so kids couldn’t find it. So we got our first album and all of our other out of print stuff before Killing and whacked it all together and put it on one release. We tried to make it available to kids if they wanted it. It wasn’t so much of a marketing ploy, it was doing something that kids asked of us, I guess.”

And Parkway Drive are always accommodating to their fans.

“We try to hang out with as many kids as we can after shows and stuff and we try to make kids as happy as they can. For example, I signed some guy’s nuts in New Mexico.”

You read right. He signed a fan’s nutsack.

“He got them out and they were swollen, and I signed them. I even took a photo with him afterwards. It was crazy.” All part of the Parkway Drive service.

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© Tom Valcanis / Crushtor Media Services, All Rights Reserved. Posted with permission.

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Through The Wire, Part III (Receiver)

Part III of III in a short story series entitled "Through the Wire."

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Driving down the interstate at 2am, Juanita glanced at her phone again. No missed calls. That wasn't like Michael. He must have been tired. He wouldn't be doing anything untoward. He wasn't like that. "Because he's spineless," her unconscious mind pushed through. Fuck that. She lit up another cigarette and pushed her clunker past 65. Its even possible the wire had been severed. There wasn't much coming through the wire. Just the old memories of times gone past, the intense heat of passion that had now yielded to routine, to the same old shit. Oh how those days had passed so quickly, oh how they scorched her lip and tongue just thinking about it. Unbeknownst to Michael, she kept all the old letters from the wire. She could almost remember every word.

"Do you remember that, sweetheart? Do you remember that feeling? We waded through the free waters of a day that felt like it would dawn with such brilliance and never end. It was like a renewal; a glimmer of hope in a world that had shunned and trampled over us. You held that pain in your heart for so long; you long seized that the notion of this life was meant to be a struggle. That you were waiting for the day it would all come down. We went out on our limbs and spread our arms wide to catch each other. Sometimes, it was if you fell backwards and in the act of catching you, you had already fallen to the floor. Even so, our love is so great it can weather any storm.

We had this promise made, we were in love."

It could've been true; everything that was said in those pages sent over the wire - but then again, it could've all been bullshit. The prick disappeared without a trace, almost. He was back somewhere, working on his problems without a care in the world for anyone else. There was love but no trust. All the wires she thought that were connected both ways were just shadows; her mind playing tricks on her. There was even doubt that the wires ever existed, or that they always had. It was a constant battle of probability fighting uncertainty.

As the cigarette snuffed itself out and ash scattered across the dashboard, it occurred to her that she was no where near home. She was going to the place where she lived. So many things on her mind - every topic and subject conceivable except for herself. If she wasn't thinking of her, then who was? The wire didn't have the answer. So who would? Would anyone?

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Through The Wire, Part II (Deceiver)

Part II of III in a short story series entitled "Through the Wire."

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“It’s okay,” he said with a muted voice down his overpriced cell phone in the middle of a lonely stairway like a clandestine encounter.

“Juanita’s at work. I’m in another state, for Christ’s sake.” He paused for the other voice on the other end of the wire.

“It’ll be fine I don't mind waiting a few more hours. When you do, wear as little as possible,” he said wryly. He gave a little chuckle and walked back toward his suite.

Sliding his key into the door, he heard a familiar beep and click and pushed himself in. Walking past the kitchenette and amenities, he slumped himself on to the bed. Loosening his collar, he flung his tie across the room and turned on the television set. His stock portfolio was losing traction. A few more days and it would tumble down a cliff all by itself.

A sigh. “I love Juanita, I really do.” He thought to himself as he lay, sleep gathering in his eyes. “But Lacey. Fuck me. I’ve never felt that way before. She makes me feel like a new born child. Free of sin, free of shame. She makes me feel right being me.”

Before Michael knew it, sleep had claimed him. In his dreams he sat in a lonely room watching television again – Sesame Street. Panic swarmed over his body. He could almost taste the musty stench of decaying old feta and extinguished cigarettes. He could see yellowing floral wallpaper curling up at the corners of the rundown walls. He was the age of four at his grandmother’s. Where was mommy? Where was daddy? Where was anyone? All of his bricks were smashed and no one was coming to help him. Crying didn’t help him. Cleaning for grandma didn’t gain him attention. He was forgotten, abandoned. Nothing he did seemed right. It was all misshapen, he even felt wrong just for sitting here watching Big Bird argue with Snuffy. Why was he so different? Why was he so unloved? Was there something wrong with him? He began to inspect his hands, his feet.

He got up off of the tattered couch and walked toward the bathroom. He took the footstool from the corner to gain enough height to look at himself in the mirror. All he saw was his sandy blonde hair cover over his brown eyes. There were tears streaking down his rosy cheeks that burned hot with anger at the world and himself.

Anger at being imperfect. And not being able to do a thing about it.

There was a knock on the door. The buried shame had risen into his stomach. Once he realized who it was at the door, it disappeared. It was completely gone, for now. “Sweet freedom,” he thought. “A few hours of freedom are all I need. It’s all I need. Please give it to me. I’ll do whatever you say, darling. I’ll do whatever you say.”

Before he could shift off the bed to answer the door, his cellphone rang. The lights flickered on and off with a pulsing rhythm – the word “Juanita” flashed in his eyes. What was she doing, calling on the wire? Why would she even care at all?

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