The Young Wolf: 'We're like a family. We yell, swear, then go have a beer'

Music still does that thing where it brings people together and tears them apart simultaneously. Some reckon punk's dead, just a relic from when rebellion meant eyeliner and leather jackets. But rock and roll – that stubborn bastard – won't lie down. It morphs, it sweats, it relocates. And in Thailand, surprisingly, it's still kicking.

That’s where The Young Wolf comes in. A band so saturated in colour you'd think the 1970s never ended. Their gigs are proper fever dreams – shimmering jackets, hair that crackles with static, the sort of sound that makes your chest hurt in a good way. Their cover of a certain Led Zeppelin track racked up over four million views, and suddenly Bangkok had something new to shout about.

I wanted to know who they actually were underneath the sequins and sweat. So I sent over some questions – the type that start simple and end up unpicking what makes a band tick. The sort that remind you rock and roll isn't just noise. It's how you survive.

The howl begins

'We met through the small gig circuit in Bangkok,' they tell me. Five strangers who kept running into each other across sticky floors and dim bars. 'We jammed together in a rehearsal room. It was chaos until one night it wasn't. The gear clicked, the room caught fire, and The Young Wolf was born.'  

The five-piece – Jonathan on vocals, Jimmie Petzh and Nonney on guitars, Song Song on bass, Little on drums. A lineup that would become something more than the sum of its parts.

There's something proper charming about this. You can almost picture it: cables everywhere, laughter bouncing off peeling walls, a band stumbling into something special without really trying.

Their name showed up like it was meant to. 

“The name came from the feeling of being young but also wild, hungry and slightly out of place.” 

they explain. 'It sounded like that wild part of you that never settles down. Just wants to keep moving.'

That restlessness runs through everything they do. It's in the riffs, the clothes, those glances they throw at each other mid-song. The pack instinct is real – a family bound by feedback and gut feeling rather than blood.

Dressed in noise

Jonathan's vocals have that texture you don't forget – a sharp, metallic wail that cuts through everything. When I ask where it began, he doesn't mess about. 'I started singing in a church choir. I got my parents to let me go to a Christian school specifically so I could join the choir.'

The irony of a rock singer emerging from hymnals isn't lost on either of us. 'Recovery's simple, water, rest and shut up. I sometimes switch the water for whiskey too.'

Their look – all flared trousers, velvet jackets and swagger – isn't some nostalgic gimmick.

“The ‘70s thing isn't planned, we just connect to those elements and that vibe. The edge, the attitude, it's honest, raw and loud – very loud.”

They discuss the decade like true believers. 'In the 70’s you had a diverse scene – glam rock, punk, prog, disco – all of it burns through our DNA.'

There's something quite refreshing about their lack of irony. The Young Wolf aren't attempting to be the ‘70s. They're what happens when that era gets reborn in a humid Bangkok rehearsal room, with motorbike engines humming outside.

Freedom on two wheels

'The Covid lockdown made prisoners of everyone,' they say when I ask about The Jack (Rider), their track that sounds like a leather jacket in motion. 'It was escape by imagination, those words were us kicking the walls down. It was also fuelled by Sons of Anarchy, which I binged on. My spirit escaped on two wheels.'

The track's part of a larger story – a 'playing card' concept they call the tetralogy. The King, The Jack, more to come. Each one a portrait of human instinct. 'Each card in the series represents a side of human nature like power, rebellion, love, chaos. The King commands. The Jack revolts. The next will follow that thread and dig deeper into the heart – ooh... did I just give you a clue there?'

There's mischief in their mythology. Even when they hint at something deeper, it's laced with humour. You get the sense they're more interested in feeling than meaning.

Viral fire

I couldn't not ask about that Led Zeppelin cover, ‘Whole Lotta Love’. The one that caught the internet off guard.

‘We didn't think it would blow up like that,’ they admit. ‘We don't perform covers live, but sometimes run through them in rehearsal to warm up and often record the whole session. We loved how that version sounded so we shared it and next thing we knew, the world was watching.’

Viral fame can be brutal. One day you're just another rock band in Bangkok; the next, you're everyone's algorithm. ‘Suddenly there were messages, views and more love on our socials. We love the love, hate the hate, but we don't overthink it or it kills the fun. We breathe slow and keep playing.’

Jonathan repeats one of his favourite lines: 

“Viral is a virus but we feed it scraps and keep our soul intact.’ It's their philosophy in a nutshell.” 

They refuse to let the internet own them. Their approach to covers sums it up best. ‘We treat them like our own new songs – new skin over old bones.’

Bangkok in the blood

Bangkok is more than just backdrop – it's a character in their story.

‘Bangkok shapes everything,’ they say. "The noise, the traffic, the heat. It hums like an electric prayer in a neon church. You can't live here without it leaking into your sound.’

When I ask which neighbourhood they'd be if they were the city itself, they don't miss a beat. ‘We'd be a road running through a red light district, past churches, temples, short time hotels, universities, stadiums and skyscrapers. Loud, heavenly, dangerous, fast and changing every second. And no tolls if you scream loud enough!’

It makes sense. Their music feels like that very road – holy and hedonistic at once.

The band's also full of personality clashes that somehow work. ‘We're like a family,’ Jonathan admits. ‘We yell, swear, then go have a beer. Fighting's a great way to solve problems, I almost punched Petch one time, and one time he almost punched me.’

He lists what each member brings: ‘Jonathan's the voice. Jimmie's the fire. Song's the glue. Non's the weight. Little's the pulse. You pull one out, the house collapses.’

That house, messy as it is, stands on shared stubbornness.

The process

When a song starts, no one knows where it'll go. ‘The birth of a song is different every time,’ they explain. ‘Someone may turn up with a riff or a few chords. If it makes the room shake, we keep it. The only constant is that Jo writes the words.’

Trends? They couldn't care less. 

‘We don't chase trends, we're oblivious to them. We just do our own thing and if people like it then that's a bonus.’

As for the future of Thai rock? ‘We never think about things like that. It's like we're in a vacuum. We just do our thing. Looking towards the future, we want to keep doing what we are doing and take it all over the planet to reach as many people as possible for as long as possible.’

Freedom, for them, isn't a metaphor. ‘Freedom is the open road, no map, no stop signs, no compromise. Our setbacks made us stronger. As long as we stick with the pack, the only rules are pack rules.’

When I ask what they've learned about making music in Thailand, they shrug. ‘Read the previous answer,’ they laugh. ‘And... be nice to people!’

And the legacy? Jonathan doesn't even pause. ‘Easy... The Young Wolf!’

The howl continues

By the end of our exchange, I realise what makes The Young Wolf special isn't nostalgia or volume. It's faith – not the church kind, but the sweaty, electric kind you find under flickering lights when strangers start to move the same way.

They're a band born from Bangkok's beautiful mess, fuelled by freedom, bonded by noise. Rock and roll might not be the centre of the world anymore, but for a few songs, The Young Wolf make it feel like it still could be.