I had never seen Slayer.
In nearly thirty-five years of
metal fandom, and Christ, nearly thirty since I first heard South of Heaven, I was beginning to
think I would slip gently into middle-aged metal-fandom without having heard
the bombast of songs like “Angel of Death” at a volume designed to rip my scalp
from my skull. You know, the way songs like that are meant to be heard.
You see, for me, the prime time
to have seen Slayer would have been during the 1991 Clash of the Titans tour - where it was them, Anthrax, Megadeth,
and a young Alice in Chains as opener - all of the bands in their vital, hungry
glory. My friends saw that tour when it hit Vancouver June 1, 1991. I was still
fifteen and my parents thought I wasn’t quite ripe enough for a concert getaway
in the big city. I made up for it once I turned sixteen that year and their ban
was lifted, but it didn’t happen in time for Titans. But I had loads of chances
to see Slayer after that, and even when they reunited with the original lineup
in 2001, I still hemmed and hawed and thought I’d get around to seeing them “someday”.
Then, Jeff Hanneman got sick in 2011 and in my head, I really didn’t want to
see Slayer without him onstage – he wrote all of my favorite songs, it didn’t
feel right without him there. Then, in 2013, drummer Dave Lombardo was fired
again, and Jeff Hanneman passed away, and if I’m honest, it felt like my chances
of ever seeing Slayer live passed with those events. No disrespect to a monster
guitarist like Gary Holt, or a powerhouse drummer like Paul Bostaph, but given
the history of the importance of Slayer in my life, I wrestled long and hard
and convinced myself that without Hanneman and Lombardo, it was only
half-Slayer.
I turned lucky-thirteen on August
30th, 1988 - the very same day the first Danzig album was
released. I was going in to ninth grade
at Parkland Junior Secondary in Cranbrook BC. I was about to meet a friend who
would wield considerable influence on the path my musical tastes would saunter
down. And one of the bands that friend, Ferdy Belland, would introduce me to,
was Slayer. Our crew was small – but we fell hard for metal. Metallica was the band
that united us, like they united most metalheads of that era: and from them, we
learned of the other bands who would come to comprise The Big Four. Slayer
especially held us in thrall, given their cache of aggressive riffing and evil
posturing. I remember the day Ferdy got South
Of Heaven from the Columbia House Record Club. As soon as he’d torn the
cardboard mailer open, the record went on the turntable and we all passed
around the album jacket, unsure of what we were taking in. Giant bleeding skull
pierced by giant inverted cross, various demons within it unleashing all manner
of torment on damned souls. And Slayer’s pentagram logo festooned overtop. Flip
the record over, and the four dudes on the back looked intense. Bands like Mötley
may have postured with pentagrams, and then turned glam - but you knew it was
all a pose, like everything they did. We weren’t so sure with Slayer, and
therein lie the attraction: This music might have been everything they warned
us about. From the first menacing chord shifts of the title track, our young
ears pricked up, knowing we had unlocked a Pandora’s Box of something wickedly
heavy. South Of Heaven remains my
favorite Slayer record; it’s just heavier than anything else they did before or
after.
By the time the next Slayer album,
Season In The Abyss, came out in
October of 1990, I had moved to a new town, and had a whole new set of friends
- but again, our lives and our friendship centered around our music. The
release of Seasons was huge news for
us; heavily anticipated, it was the centerpiece of albums released that year
for my friends and I. In addition, Slayer was one of the bands that made me
want to start playing in bands myself, and the following summer of 1991, I
would meet a fledgling guitar player who would become one of my dearest
lifelong friends; Slayer especially would become a common tongue spoken between
us. It turned out Mike Page lived across the alley from me, and one warm summer
night, he knocked on my door, having seen an ad I’d put up in the local record
store, looking for people to start a band with. We hit it off instantly, and that
night he moved his guitar amp over to my bedroom, where my drumkit was – and we
set to making godawful noise at once. The first song we played together was
“Master of Puppets”, but very shortly thereafter, “Seasons In The Abyss” became
a staple of our burgeoning setlist. When school convened that September, Mike
& I lucked into the same band class together. Occasionally throughout the
year, whether we were in band class or at a school assembly where the band was
playing, we’d give each other a look and erupt into a gnarly rendition of
“Seasons”, to the joy of any other metalheads within earshot, more often to the
apoplectic dismay of our band teacher. But we didn’t give a shit – that was the
power of a band like Slayer. People –love it or hate it- fucking ALWAYS reacted
to it. And that was what you wanted. A reaction.
Through Mr. Page, I met other people,
people who would become lifelong friends, the common thread always being metal
music. Strong bonds, bonded by blood. One of these people was Guz: Ryan Guza to
his parents, but Guz to the rest of us, and he and I would also later play
music together, and form equally as strong a bond over this infernal racket. You see, me and my friends, we played this
music together, turned each other on to new records and bands, traveled on long
road trips together, usually to Vancouver to see our favorite bands when they
came to town. This music was the language we spoke, and the air we breathed,
and it was always in our lives. This is why whenever someone tells me they
“used to like metal”, I can only shake my head. If you truly love this music,
you’re a fucking lifer, and there’s no growing out of it.
The years passed, though - quicker
than I could believe. Eventually, I moved to the big city, settled down, got
married, didn’t see my old friends as much as I wanted to. Didn’t lose touch, exactly
- but didn’t get to see each other as often anymore. All of a sudden, a decade
went by, then two. Bands –my own, bands I listened to- came and went. Slayer
remained untouchable, if only for the big trilogy of records they’d kicked off
with Reign in Blood, and followed with
the two above-mentioned records. Theirs was a name spoken with reverence in our
subculture, and for better or worse, outside our culture they became the cliché
band name spoken by anyone looking to mock metal subculture – because their
fans were insane. Let’s face it: as
lifelong metal fans, we all know a “Slayer fan” or two – those hammerheads we
love who always take it to the next level of extreme, bless ‘em.
All of a sudden, it’s 2016. I’m
forty-fucking-one. Where did the time go?
A couple things converged to conspire
this year, that would set in motion one of the best gigs –and nights- of my
life.
One: In May, Slayer announced a
tour of North America with Anthrax and Death Angel in tow. The fact that I’d
never seen any of these bands, all of whom had figured so prominently in my
formative teenage years, and now they were touring together, was enough to
prick up my ears. But then it turned out one of the last dates on the tour was
in Penticton, BC – the town where I’d lived from the ages of fourteen to
twenty-three, where my first bands were started, where I met Page and Guz, who
became lifelong friends, because of what bands like Slayer –especially Slayer-
meant to us. You have to understand—if Slayer had deigned to play a town like
Penticton in those days, we would have gone mental. The fact that they were
coming to Penticton in 2016 made no difference, I had to go.
Fuck, we all had to go.
Two: A few months after the
Slayer tour announcement, my sister Darcia, who lives in Penticton, and is an
avid gig-goer all her own, won a contest put on by the local media wherein she
won a year’s worth of a pair of free tickets to every event being put on at the
town’s new arena, where all of their big rock gigs are held – and as luck would
have it, Slayer would be one of these. As her husband already had tickets for
the gig, and Darcia herself had no particular inclination to see Slayer, she graciously
offered the tickets to me.
So, let me get this straight:
Free tickets? To see Slayer? In my hometown? With Anthrax and Death Angel? And
all my hometown friends? Are you fucking kidding me?!
Sometimes the metal fates align
in mysterious ways.
Texts were rapidly sent, and
confirmations made – I would be coming home for one night only, to see Slayer.
Finally. With the friends who were listening to this music with me twenty-five
years ago. The people who lived and breathed this music like I did. Most
auspicious was that I would be going with Page and Guz. Page and I see each
other every year or so, when one of us visits the other one’s town. But for Guz
and I, it had been over a dozen years since we last were in the same room
together. This would be a very special night indeed. Truth told, while there
were a raft of friends I hoped to see –and would get to see- while I was in
town, there were no other two people I wanted to see Slayer with. For the three
of us, Slayer was our band – a huge influence, records we’d listened to, songs
we’d covered faithfully - thousands of times.
The night finally arrived. When I
got home to Penticton, Page and I beelined it over to Guza’s place for pregame
reunion beers. There’s that feeling when you haven’t seen an old friend for –in
this case- a dozen years, but you immediately pick up right where you left off
like it was yesterday you saw each other last; I’m sure the Germans have a word
for it. Anyway, that’s how it was with the three of us. It was also wonderful to
finally meet Guz’s partner, Heather. It’s always good to see your friends’
lives have turned out good, and that they’re in healthy, satisfying
relationships. We all quickly caught up and quaffed a few, and then quickly
enough, it was time to go bang heads.
Arrival at the arena proved
interesting. Penticton’s events centre houses the main arena for their hockey
team, where the concerts are held - as well as a secondary ice rink, which,
when we arrived was hosting a free skate for parents and kids. There was
something vaguely incongruous, but altogether ironically satisfying about the
wee ones happily ice-skating away, while right next door, three thousand
headbangers in various satan-praising t-shirts howled at the moon for their
favorite heavy metal band.
We parked and made our way to the
back entrance of the arena, and as we entered, two RCMP officers, one security
guard, and one ticket-taker were manning the door. All greeted us warmly as we
entered, scanning our tickets and pointing us in the direction to go, friendly
the whole time. No frisking, no metal detector, no hairy-eyeball, no hassle
whatsoever – was this a Slayer gig? For real?
After a small hike through the
mazelike rear entrance, we found our way to the arena’s main concourse, and
there we were among our people. Peals of “SLAAAAAAAAAYER!” rang out, right on
cue. A quick perusal of the merch situation revealed about a dozen different
t-shirt designs for Slayer, a handful for Anthrax, and two or three for Death
Angel. Shirts were $50, but the gnarly Show
No Mercy hooded hockey jersey was $150. I made a mental note to pick out
the ugliest Slayer shirt available, made sure it had tour dates on the back,
and earmarked it to buy later when the merch line wasn’t so long.
Standing in the arena’s main
concourse before Death Angel’s set, and between bands, I was struck by the
endless parade of faces in the crowd I’d not seen since high school twenty-five
years ago. But I was more struck by the old friends who also happened by, and many
catch-up beers, and lots of brotherly metal bear-hugs abounded. It was so great
to be surrounded by old friends for such an auspicious gig.
As the opener, Death Angel’s set
was only six songs short, and while they opened with “The Ultra-Violence” and
“Evil Priest”, the rest of the set was mostly newer songs I didn’t recognize.
They still packed a punch, though. Mark Osegueda especially was in fine form,
his pipes still as powerful as they were the first time I heard “Bored” way
back when, and I was kinda bummed it didn’t show up in their set. Short and
sweet, it was still one hell of a primer for the rest of the night’s
proceedings.
There was time for a quick beer
and some more hey-man-long-time-no-sees
between bands, but I didn’t want to miss any of Anthrax’s set, so I high-tailed
it back to my seat at the first strains of “AIR”. Again, as direct support, it
was a short set from Anthrax, only nine songs, and half of those were off the
new album they’re currently promoting. But, the third song in the set was
“Caught In A Mosh”, and you can bet as soon as we heard Scott Ian’s opening
power chord, for the first time that night, me and three thousand other bangers
went gloriously fucking NUTS. The follow-up of that one-two punch was their
cover of Joe Jackson’s “Got the Time” and it was almost perfect: Skawty’s deathstomp,
Frankie’s strut, Joey’s perfect voice and acrobatics and hair-that-looks-like-a
wig-but-it-isn’t. That is, it was almost
perfect: While erstwhile substitute Jon Dette was certainly no slouch on the
kit, it didn’t quite seem complete without Cholly on the skins. But we got
their cover of “Antisocial”, and they closed out the set with a killer
“Indians”, so ultimately I was satisfied. The best part for me, though, had to
be during “Got The Time” when the dude in front me, similar in age,
paunchiness, and grayness of hair, was also going visibly nuts like we were,
and we wound up shouting the chorus TICKIN’ IN MUH HEAD! at one another for the
rest of the song. The dude then tried to drunkenly educate me on Scott Ian’s
picking style, pointing at him and shouting at me, “Look. Only downstrokes!
Scott Ian only plays downstrokes!” Dude, come on, I know.
So much joy in the room. Dad-aged
metalheads, kid-aged metalheads, everyone in between. No hassles, no fights, no
fuckery . Well, a little fuckery – one thing the small-town arena seemed to
have in short supply were well-trained security. You’d think for a Slayer gig
they might have wanted to beef up their arena security a little bit, to include
maybe some bouncers or MMA fighters or something. But I have to admit, there
was some comedy in watching the senior-aged ushers and security I saw dressing
down the occasional burly metalhead for infractions like smoking in the arena,
or standing in common areas instead of their own seats. They might as well have
just left well enough alone for all the good it did. But again, all in all, a fun night was had by
everyone from what I could see.
But the best was still yet to
come.
The feeling –indescribable- was
palpable. Something, a random chaos, bubbled away inside, just under the
surface, begging to tear loose – inside me, inside my friends, inside everyone
in the room. And suddenly, the lights dropped and the curtain across the stage
emblazoned four inverted crosses, to the opening strains of “Delusions of
Saviour”, that flash of white-hot-but-ice-cold shot its way down my spine: I was here. Home. With my friends, people who
meant the world to me. Hearing the music that meant more to me –to us- than
anything else we’d ever heard in our entire lives. There was really only one
thing I could do.
As the curtain finally dropped,
and Slayer kicked off “Repentless”…
My throat opened, my hands curled
to horns, raised to the heavens, face to the sky, and from deep in my gullet, I
howled with every last ounce of my reptilian being, the only thing that
mattered to say:
“FUCKING
SLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Catharsis at its most primal.
From there, for the rest of the set, I was every fucking cliché of every
metalhead you’ve ever seen in the media. Hooting, howling, growling,
headbanging, fingers cast in arcane gestures praising various devils, fists
raised again and again and again, more headbanging, more howling; and more and
more, ad infinitum.
Slayer, for their part, did not
disappoint in the least, and I’ll admit, they shattered my incredibly-high
expectations. Araya and King, I mean, it’s their show, and they are
well-seasoned veterans at this point, but never once in the least did their
performances seem phoned in or by-the-numbers, which is honestly something I
half-expect when large acts play more provincial markets. Bostaph has always
been a monster drummer, and this is no mean feat when you’re replacing one of
metaldom’s most beloved drummers of all-time. But his playing was especially
inspired this night, or maybe it was just me, finally hearing in all their
pounding glory the drum licks that shaped the way I learned to play drums
myself. It all sounded so fucking good. And Gary Holt, satan bless him, more
than held his own as foil to Kerry King, even if his guitar channel was
noticeably quieter than King’s.
The set, two hours, was a perfect
mix of old and new. A caveat: I couldn’t help it - I was so excited I cheated,
and studied the band’s recent setlists, and made a playlist the week prior to
the gig. But the unexpected fringe benefit of this was how much of a newfound
appreciation this gave me for the latter-day material. I’ll admit, when Repentless came out in September 2015, I
gave it a few cursory listens -out of respect-
but at the time, it didn’t really stick with me. And honestly, this is
true of most Slayer records after Undisputed
Attitude for me. While they always put out solid records, nothing will ever
touch the Trilogy in my eyes.
So when “War Ensemble” showed up
sixth in the set, you can bet I was ready. And I went off accordingly, wrecking
my neck in the process, but who the fuck cares: A wrecked neck is how you know
you did it right. Even still, the best was still to come, and come it did:
“Mandatory Suicide”, “Dead Skin Mask” (“we’re gonna play our love song”, joked
Araya), “Chemical Warfare” all set the place alight. These balanced perfectly against
newer cuts like “Pride in Prejudice” and “Vices”, and the mosh pit on the floor
was a perfect indication – the hammerheads in the pit never flagged, never
waned.
Finally:
Seasons.
In.
The.
Abyss.
I screamed, my face in a permanent
rictus of gleeful wrath (or was that wrathful glee?), hands curled into devil
horns, as I air-drummed along for satan, my throat at this point a scorched
husk of itself but who cares?, still howling and growling and exercising all my
pesky demons righteously. I looked over to my seatmate Mr. Page, and saw that
same look in his own eyes – reckless, wild abandon. I looked across to Guz in the
next section over, and there it was again - The Look. And the three of us in
our rightful places worshiping at the altar of Slayer.
“Anticipation, the stimulation, To kill the
exhilaration,”
I howled it again:
“FUCKING
SLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
It was probably the
thirty-seventh time at that point in the night, but it was still necessary.
It had never felt less necessary.
The rest of the set was pure
black magic (no pun intended, though “Black Magic” was the penultimate song in
the set) - there’s no other way for me to put it. Whenever I thought my
forty-one-year-old, rapidly-middle-aging body would simply give up and slump to
the ground, Slayer would play another warhorse-chestnut in the set, and somehow I would dig down deep and call up the energy to keep raging away.
As the set wound down, “South of
Heaven” tore my head off anew and it remains now and forever quite probably my
favorite song in their canon. Slayer at their slow-handed, menacing best will
always ring entirely more evil to me than any of the lightspeed songs in their
catalog. Followed by the thunderous DUN-DUN-DUN of “Raining Blood”, Slayer kept
up a furious, wild-hunt momentum right to the last song of the night, played in
tribute to the fallen Jeff Hanneman (complete with Heineken/Hanneman backdrop)
- their paean to Mengele’s atrocities, the mighty “Angel of Death”. It was as
glorious live as it was the first time I heard it nearly thirty years ago, and
the only ending to the night I could have imagined, or would have accepted. There was no encore, because there didn't need to be. It was the perfect ending.
The lights came up.
As Osegueda & Ian did before him, Araya stepped to the front of the stage and spoke to the crowd at the end, thanking us
profusely for our time and welcome, and promising to be back again real soon.
Penticton, their bloodlust sated for the time being, roared their thanks in unison.
Suddenly it was over.
Three-thousand-odd satiated headbangers made their way out into the rain-soaked
October Penticton night, Kerry King’s discordant solos ringing in our ears. I’m
glad I waited to see them, because that show gave me a newfound appreciation
for a band I have loved a very long time. This show now ranks in my all-time
Top Five of gigs attended.
FUCKING SLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
forever.
Amen.
Slayer setlist:
Delusions of Saviour/Repentless
The Antichrist
Disciple
Postmortem
Hate Worldwide
War Ensemble
When the Stillness Comes
You Against You
Mandatory Suicide
Fight Till Death
Dead Skin Mask
Chemical Warfare
Pride in Prejudice
Vices
Seasons in the Abyss
Hell Awaits
South of Heaven
Raining Blood
Black Magic
Angel of Death
The Antichrist
Disciple
Postmortem
Hate Worldwide
War Ensemble
When the Stillness Comes
You Against You
Mandatory Suicide
Fight Till Death
Dead Skin Mask
Chemical Warfare
Pride in Prejudice
Vices
Seasons in the Abyss
Hell Awaits
South of Heaven
Raining Blood
Black Magic
Angel of Death
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