It’s not often you find yourself thinking, “Wow, that dude really peaked behind bars,” but Tim Lambesis, infamous frontman of metalcore band As I Lay Dying, genuinely seemed cooler in a prison jumpsuit. Lambesis, who spent two and a half years in jail after attempting to hire an undercover cop posing as a hitman to murder his ex-wife, has tried hard to convince everyone he’s reformed. But honestly, he was way more interesting when he wasn’t trying.
Before the incarceration saga, Lambesis was known for his screams, tattoos, and a carefully managed tough-guy persona that mostly appealed to 16-year-olds who owned a lot of black band shirts. But jail exposed a side we never saw coming, the Tim who quickly earned the genuine respect of his fellow inmates and the nickname “Iron Pastor.” Yes, the same guy who once hired a cop as a fake hitman became the de facto prison chaplain, apparently preaching a mixture of repentance, weightlifting techniques, and obscure metal trivia during yard time.
Not stopping there, Lambesis also founded a prison metal band called “Shanksgiving,” whose live performances in the mess hall every Taco Tuesday became legendary. Prisoners reportedly moshed so aggressively during their hit single “Betrayed by Biceps” that the warden temporarily banned metal music altogether, labeling it as “dangerously motivational.” Rumors even suggest “Shanksgiving” recorded a secret demo using smuggled cell phones, toilet paper rolls, and contraband guitar strings.
Now free, Lambesis has predictably returned to the metalcore scene, wearing his “reformation” as openly as his sleeve tattoos. He’s back screaming into microphones and attempting earnest apologies, but it all feels aggressively performative, especially compared to his more genuinely fascinating “Iron Pastor” days.
These days, watching Lambesis beg for forgiveness and acceptance feels forced, like a kid giving a class presentation about how sorry he is for setting the science lab hamster loose. The truth is, Lambesis was actually at his most likable when he was quietly minding his business in prison, earning the respect of hardened criminals.
And sure, some might argue that people deserve second chances. Robert Downey Jr. went from addict to Iron Man, after all. But Downey never turned prison rec rooms into mosh pits or converted murderers into metalheads, at least not to my knowledge.
Frankly, Lambesis’ post-jail redemption tour feels less like genuine repentance and more like carefully staged PR. Metalheads can pretend all they want that Lambesis is now just a misunderstood saint, but let’s call it like it is: Tim Lambesis was unironically better when he was behind bars, transforming prisons into impromptu metal festivals and preaching bench-press-based sermons.
So yeah, I miss the Iron Pastor. Because Tim Lambesis pretending to be a better person just isn’t as entertaining as the Tim Lambesis who turned prison yards into metalcore paradise and made hardened criminals genuinely appreciate Tuesdays.