A Ferocious Cry Against Mortality and the Power-Lust of Youth, Delivered with a Thunderous, Primitive Majesty.
In the brief, blinding supernova that was the original era of Mountain, few songs captured the band’s sheer, elemental force better than “Blood Of The Sun.” This towering slab of blues-metal—a genre they essentially co-authored—first appeared on guitarist Leslie West’s 1969 solo album, Mountain, which served as the group’s genesis. However, the track truly found its audience and legendary status when a live version (which was, confusingly, not actually recorded at the festival but at the Fillmore East) was included on the 1971 soundtrack album, Woodstock Two. While “Blood Of The Sun” itself was not released as a single and has no individual chart position, the album it anchored was a massive success, soaring to a peak position of No. 7 on the US Billboard Top LPs chart. For those of us who lived through that era, that album was a talisman, a tangible piece of the myth, and this track was the sound of a Mountain roaring onto the scene.
The story of “Blood Of The Sun” is intrinsically tied to the dramatic, powerful partnership of Leslie West and bassist/producer Felix Pappalardi. It was co-written by West, Pappalardi, and Pappalardi’s wife, lyricist Gail Collins. This triumvirate created a sound that was at once crushing and melodic, a perfect, heavy counterpart to the cosmic folk and psychedelic wanderings of the late sixties. Pappalardi, fresh from producing Cream—the band whose sonic blueprint Mountain often recalled—brought a meticulous, almost classical arrangement sense to West’s raw, visceral guitar tone. This track is the perfect collision of those forces: West’s iconic, searing Les Paul tone cutting through the mix, backed by the rumbling, architectural rhythm section. It was the sound of the counterculture getting muscular, shedding its skin of gentle acoustic protest for something with real, seismic impact.
The meaning of the song, penned by Collins, is a dramatic exploration of youth, power, and the inescapable cycle of life and death. The “blood of the sun” is not a life-giving force, but a consuming one. It speaks to a protagonist who is grappling with their own mortality and the loss of youth’s endless promise. The lyrics paint a dark, almost pagan picture: “I have walked in the silence / I have talked to the sea / But all the blood of the sun / Is wasted on me.” It’s a defiant, yet desperate declaration that the energy, the raw life force—the ‘blood’—is slipping away, or perhaps was never truly appreciated. The track is not a nostalgic look back, but a hard-hitting acknowledgment of time’s crushing passage, a theme that resonates deeply with anyone who has watched the decades spin by.
Hearing “Blood Of The Sun” again is a moment of pure, visceral memory—it’s the sound of a needle dropping onto the vinyl late at night, the massive, distortion-drenched riff ripping through the speakers, reminding you that rock ‘n’ roll was, at its best, a beautiful kind of sonic violence. It evokes that feeling of standing on the outside of a generation’s defining moment, not at Yasgur’s Farm in ‘69, but clutching the album in ‘71, feeling the raw, aggressive honesty of a band that traded flower power for pure power rock. It’s a nostalgic nod to a time when a heavy riff felt like a philosophical statement, a four-minute scream that dared the universe to contradict its furious, temporary majesty.