Weatherall’s taste in music was idiosyncratic, in the best possible sense, animated by something much larger than—and outside—the music, as evidenced by his own introductions to his show. “Greetings, sisters and brothers,” Weatherall usually began. “Welcome to the temple of gnostic sonics.” From that moment on, the bass lines were heavy, the beats repetitive, the mood as high as his own cannabinoid proclivities.
He had at least two famous tattoos: “Fail We May,” one forearm said. “Sail We Must,” replied the other. And we must.
I never even met the guy, but—tired-looking, grey-haired, unbothered—Weatherall has left the world. Here are at least 140 hours’ worth of his sets, dating back to 2014.