By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
By New Times
By Derek Askey
I have this great idea for a reality television show. Here's what we do: We round up every single exec, producer, consultant, show doctor, set designer, snotty host, vampiric talent scout, PR monkey and anyone else who had a hand in creating Pop Stars, Making the Band and American Idol, and we fence them all in on an isolated sod farm somewhere in the heartland, far from Los Angeles or New York Indiana or Nebraska, say someplace where actual people like you and me conduct our business, where they'd be totally out of their element.
And every Thursday night at 8, we get a different speed-metal band to come to town and pimp-slap every single one of those terrified free-range pinheads until they wet their pants and promise to flee our televisions, forever and ever amen.
The potential delights of a show like this are myriad. First, the aforementioned pinheads would at last be providing us with solid entertainment, while receiving a much-needed reminder of their true position in the human hierarchy. Second, it would teach our impressionable youth that there are more, and better, methods of musical expression than the faux-sluttish caterwaul and the multi-harmonic castrato. Third, it'd have very low overhead (I don't see any reason to feed or clothe the pinheads, for instance). And fourth, it would put a truckload of struggling bands back to regular work.
For the première episode, however, I'd want Slayer to serve as our guest pimp-slappers not because they need the money, but because they've got the pinheads' number.
"If you've got the formula down," says founding guitarist Kerry King, "it's going to be hard to fail. In a situation like that, even if you fail, you succeed, because the performer is already plastered all over the television. Hire the top songwriter in the field and it's going to be nearly impossible to fuck up the created band.'"
King, a member of a band whose métier has never wavered over its lifetime, knows whereof he speaks. Slayer formed in Huntington Beach, California, in the early '80s, taking up an early standard-bearer position in the burgeoning speed-metal movement.
"At the time," he says, "we probably didn't expect anyone to get it. We just didn't want to be an L.A. band,' like Ratt or Poison; we wanted to do something unique and trust that as people continued to hear it, they'd realize that it wasn't pointless noise that it was just something unfamiliar."
Derided by both conservative critics and radical punks as a slope-browed aberration, speed metal went through its changes completely off the map in those early years. Mostly absent from radio, the music was distributed and passed around by a whole subgeneration of feather-haired, disaffected, teenaged white boys, who themselves were learning how to mangle their very first fretboards. (Two words: Yngwie Malmsteen. Don't front, you know you owned a copy of Rising Force.)
It took a solid half-decade for speed metal to break MTV, in the days when MTV was a half-reliable, if hopelessly tardy, measurement of a genre's popularity outside New York City. Along with Metallica and Megadeth, Slayer walked point on Headbanger's Ball for several years, thereby invading the rec rooms of suburban America. What separated Slayer from the pack, however, was its reckless embracing of apocalyptic imagery. Alone among the metal bands, Slayer truly worked at being hellish.
Eschewing both the slick accessibility of a Guns n' Roses and the I'm-a-pretty-boy mannerisms of a Poison, Slayer announced its ugly, enduring mandate on its very first Metal Blade release, 1983's Show No Mercy. In fact, scan the album titles and they'll give you a pretty fair indicator of the band's lifelong m.o.: Hell Awaits, Reign in Blood, South of Heaven, Seasons in the Abyss Slayer traded in the dark imagery of occultism and a crimson-drenched afterlife, with overtly satanic themes running throughout. To cop an irresistible Mike Myers line, their music was so evil it was "ee-vil . . . as in, the froo-its of the De-vil."
As opposed to Dio or Ozzy, however, you got the feeling that when Slayer sang about gore and damnation, it wasn't just campy posturing you sensed that singer Tom Araya somehow meant it when he screamed "High priest awaiting dagger in hand/Spilling the pure virgin blood/Satan's slaughter, ceremonial death/Answer his every command." Slayer, in other words, was Danzig when Danzig wasn't cool.
Though detractors scoffed, Slayer's performance style like the most original speed metal was rooted in technical skill, at least as far as its instrumentation was concerned. Played at whip-crack speed, the music was physically demanding and, in its way, of intricate composition. A run of 16th- and 32nd-note-filled measures is not, in other words, the sort of thing one rips off without practice.
"Yeah," says King demurely. "It wasn't without structure. The point wasn't just to play as fast as we could. There was an outline for it."
Furthermore, the longer Slayer stayed in the ring, the less pedestrian the band's lyrics became. Later albums like the canonical Reign in Blood featured songs about religious corruption ("Jesus Saves," which was somewhat predictable) and the violent history of the white supremacist movement (the Auschwitz-inspired "Angel of Death," which was an utterly left-field entry in the band's playlist).