The Ashing of the Christ

(See, that's how ya do it!  Just the swords!  No need for the biped goat-lord.)

HAUNTING THE CHAPEL
6/1984

A fourteen-minute long EP written, recorded and released to tie over the frothing, growling, growing long-maned masses who needed less Sayer and more Slayer, lest their roiling guts blast out of their stomachs and drench the carpets of their bedrooms like so much spilled beer.

"Chemical Warfare"--This live favorite is basically the aural equivalent of the "shot on shitteo" movies that were likely flickering in the background as Kerry and Jeff were songwriting. 

There is something fascinatingly horrible about being able to "destroy without destruction," to leave a trail of corpses fully-formed (if rendered grotesque, depending on the method of attack) and no messy blood for the ground to absorb.  To leave the masses confused, gasping, and vomiting.  To stare down in wide-eyed bliss and scream, "It's too late for you!  All your gas masks are obsolete!  You pissed on all that gauze for nothing!"

Slayer nearly qualify as a deadly agent themselves, playing with a grave purpose that signals their transition from NWOBHM fanboys to grim arbiters.  (Beware, guitar solos may cause fasciculation.)  I recommend sitting back, remaining still, and accepting your bloodless demise…"the lords of Hell await."

"Captor of Sin"--Starts off with a solo, so clearly we are in for some death from above.

Slayer do their very best with the hoary "Satan rapes random harlots, Antichrist baby bound to desecrate a womb eventually" theme.  I would definitely not want to be alone in any room--no matter the dimensions and lighting--with this Tom Araya. 

The Slayer vision of what Satan's boudoir looks like is pretty wild:  a floor constructed from at least three different materials, walls painted an array of palette-defying hues that affect the heart rate if stared at for too long of a time, and a bed with human limbs for posts and intestines for mattress stuffing.

Spread your wings as I penetrate your soul
Feel the fire shoot through your body as I slip into your throne


As a total work of art, "Captor of Sin" is far superior to The Jade Unicorn (both novel and film adaptation).  I would never have thought to refer to my vagina as a "throne"….but as a throne is a magnificently-kept place to sit upon, well, why wouldn't I?

"Haunting the Chapel"--Zombies attack a church chock fulla chumps?   This isn't a music record, it's the best horror anthology never filmed!

The zombies were also obviously never shot, as the subjugation is absolute and ferocious. 

Headbanging the air is for the weak.  Find-a-wall.  Or at least one that Dave Lombardo didn't fucking pulverize already.


While touring to support Haunting the Chapel, Slayer made a stop in San Antonio, TX.  A moment of truth awaited them.  They would need to become the real-life conquering villains of their songs.  A local metal band also named Slayer had been sowing their oats for a year, gigging faithfully behind their one EP and one LP.  Going by the same name as a band who'd released two well-received records on Brian Slagel's Metal Blade label,  that they were able to tour the country with, could have pressured boys with softer spines into relinquishing their handle.  But that ain't the Texas way.

So the two racket-gangs fought for it the old-fashioned way:  they played a gig together, on 11/30/1984 at the legendary San Antonio venue Villa Fontana.  Texas tried to mess with California Slayer, and California Slayer messed up Texas.  The alternate outcome would have permanently altered the landscape of American metal music, so why 11/30 isn't a sacred date to all of us who love excoriating guitar riffs played at cheetah-fuck speed while an octopus plays drums I have no idea.

(As to the fate of the newly-christened "SA" Slayer, their guitarist went on to play in a band with Neil Turbin.  When the bottom drops, it drops.)

I Mean Like It Bought Itself Dinner

FISTFUL OF METAL
2/1984

Do I really need to say that Fistful of Metal has one of metal's all-time classic album covers?  For a long time (longer than I should admit) I wondered if that was a decapitated head on the receiving end, but no, clearly can't be--the face is quite vexed, with brow furrowed fiercely, the forehead lines deep as ditches.  The recipient of this fearsome blow is among the living, and pissed.  I'd be pissed as well, somebody just strolled on up and punched the chocolate milk outta my mouth.  Times is hard.

"Deathrider"--The first song of Anthrax's first album is utterly dated, but how surprising is that?  And how does that make it empirically bad?  An introductory song should function above all as an introduction.  It should give a fair and powerful impression of an artist's modus operandi.  By that criteria, "Deathrider" is a success.  Guitarist Scott Ian and drummer Charlie Benante are already several steps ahead of the average at their respective instruments, Benante especially with dry-skinned tom rolls and double-bass kicks.

Then there is the matter of Neil Turbin. 

There is a shortlist for the honor of greatest frontman in the history of metal music--vocal ability and charisma ne plus ultra.  Ozzy, Dio, Bruce Dickinson, and my personal favorite, Rob Halford.  Their insane ranges and imperious bearings inspired countless schlubs and apt pupils.  But for every Phil Anselmo, there are fifteen Neil Turbins.  Well-meaning frontmen who couldn't mature from mimicry.  The few times on Fistful that Turbin does pull of a serviceable Halford--on "Deathrider," for example--it seems accidental. 

"Metal Thrashing Mad"--By the second song I realized that if I am to enjoy this album, it will be down to how well I can tolerate the vocalist.  Lucky everybody, "Metal Thrashing Mad" is the best track here (by a decent pace), an anthem for boys and the cars they transfer their throbbing urges to.  This song kicks so much bubblegum that I can overlook Turbin making "steel" a two-syllable word.

"I'm Eighteen"--Alice Cooper's classic for boys and the adulthood they awkwardly transition into.  Anthrax don't make it their own, not because it ain't but because they can't.

"Panic"--Cars…sex…goddamn these are some ugly-ass mechanics.  The toolbox is at least proper. 

Metal dudes and their hormones manifest in galloping riffs, muted strums, hammer-ons, scale runs, blast beats and octave pops.  None of that stuff is sexy.

"Wheels are gonna spin/Asses gonna shake."  That is not sexy either.  Really, the closest I come to being aroused by anything in "Panic" is when Scott Ian and second guitarist Dan Spitz do their Judas Priest imitation.

"Subjugator"--The Word of the Day calendar bore bountiful fruit on that day!  The title is so irrefutably metal, the transition at 1:05 is so irrefutably metal, the lick two and a half minutes in is…molten.  Basically, a buncha solos with incidental vocals.  This shovel looks fine in my hands.

"Soldiers of Metal"--Second song to have "metal" in the title, but it's arguable the least metal track here.  Not that it's an acoustic ballad or anything--it follows the road more traveled by.  Everything on display is generic.  If this album were the cereal aisle at a grocery store, "Metal Thrashing Mad" is the Rice Krispies and "Soldiers of Metal" is the Riced Crispies.

"Death From Above"--Immediately put me in mind of the Screaming For Vengeance cover.  (I'm sorry, but this album is like an altar boy's body:  the Priest is all over it.)

"Die by the sword"?  Oh crap, now I'm distracted by Slayer thoughts!  The dastardly Slayer thoughts! 

Once I get past the past, "Death From Above" appears a fully-formed scorcher.  Charlie Benante swoops down onto the throne like a caped steel eagle with laser-shooting eyes and diamond-encrusted talons.  Ian and Spitz have already landed, and the lambs are currently cooking.  Neil Turbin's scary ass is stuck in poorly-drawn comic book land.  Bassist Danny Lilker takes comfort in the fact that he got two classic songs out of his time.

"Anthrax"--If you're going to christen a song after yourself, it should hit at least 8 of the 10 bullet points to identify a future serial killer.  Sure enough, the bookend riffage is kicking dogs and setting their houses aflame.  In between, however, is some merely misdemeanor behavior.

"Across the River"--These ain't madmen, they're just pissed the cops won't let 'em skateboard in the park after 6 PM.  Truly not your grandma's music, this instrumental is enjoyable and offers tantalizing hints as to the band's future capabilities.  1:04 to 1:18 must be singled out for praise, as it is one of my favorite solos by any of the Big 4.  (Turn fourteen seconds in fifty-six, it's worth your time.)

"Howling Furies"--A steaming swamp surrounded by piles of dirt and wooden posts with initialed hearts.  The foreboding infused not by the singer's high-school talent show aura, but rather the squealing solos of Spitz.





Of the Big 4 debuts, Fistful of Metal has aged the poorest, and it's really not an argument worth having.  The standard subject matter--death, war, evil--is not the issue, because if you eliminated those topics as fodder for songs, the entire thrash metal genre would not exist.  Ultimately, it's the marginal, amateurish vocals that keeps this from consideration as a truly great album.  Neil Turbin evoked Rob Halford, he evoked Bruce Dickinson, and I'm sure he evoked Ronnie James Dio in the studio laying these tracks down, but never ever once does he evoke Neil Turbin.  In aping the guerillas without deigning to add a splash of his own style, he did a great disservice to himself and his bandmates.  If Anthrax had recorded another album with Turbin at the helm, it likely would have been their last one.

Time for some action.

Contorted and Wormed

SHOW NO MERCY
12/3/1983

Slayer rule.

Why?

'Cuz, dick.  Just do.

Ah, Slayer.  The house band for my limbic system.  How could anyone anywhere at any time disrespect a racket-gang that went from opening for Bitch to bitches opening for them?  (And no, that's not a jab at Nuclear Assault.)  The punk rock kids loved Slayer.  They recorded their debut album in eight hours and the cover was total phantasmagorical frenzy.  Guitarists Kerry King and Jeff Hanneman were the musical equivalent of Road Warriors Animal and Hawk. Vocalist/bassist Tom Araya sounded like he was laughing at your damnation (which he may or may not have had a left hand in).  Drummer Dave Lombardo meshed a bold love of music with bolder talent that could not be quashed even by having to record the drums and cymbals separately on the debut album due to insufficient studio space.

As with Metallica, Slayer had to grow into their reputation.  But their vigorously defiant spirit and unapologetic lust for the ugly pleasures of life (and death) still make for a thrilling listen.

"Evil Has No Boundaries"--The greatest "first" song of all the Big 4. 

As soon as Tom lets loose the face-melting scream of the warrior who has just keenly realized his vicious purpose, the ferocity does not let up. 

"Blasting our way through the boundaries of Hell!/No one can stop us tonight!"  Why would they want to?  I want to join you!  I keep envisioning a lot of y'all on horses, is there room for foot soldiers still?  'Cause I can't ride a horse, drive a car, or swim a lap.  But I can stab an angel in the heart like a boss.

The venomous spillage of anti-heroic misdeeds twice breaks to let the chorus shine.  And "Evil Has No Boundaries" might boast my favorite chorus of any Big 4 song, if not of the entire metal genre. 

Evil!
My words defy!
Evil!
Has no disguise!
Evil!
Will take your soul!
Evil!
My wrath unfolds!

The friend-assisted gang shouts (which are unique in the Slayer oeuvre) take it from a test of the Emergency Broadcast System to a nationwide address featuring a panicky President puking between sentences as he tries to explain to the people of America that things are officially, hopelessly fucked.

(It was also my ringtone for a few months.  I only swapped it out because I never want to reach a point where I am unmoved by cartoonish super-villainy in any and all of its forms.)

Throughout, ears are bludgeoned furthermore with what would become a familiar weapon in the Slayer arsenal:  the anti-melodic guitar solo.  Showing up nude to a masquerade party; cracking open a can of beer in a hospital waiting area; making it rain Cinnamon Toast Crunch at the strip club--the Slayer guitar solo does all of these things, and so much more.

"The Antichrist"--And the white horse he rode in on.

A safe bet for the most notorious tune on the whole record, and without question the song title I'd use if ever I wrote about a fictional metal band named "Slayer."  This also marks the moment all four guys realized Satan is a mythical figure of limitless interest and it would benefit them to revisit his realm repeatedly.

If "The Antichrist" were just a blustery aretalogy, I'd be bored a minute in.  But that ruthless restless-leg guitar riff (odd accents, another Slayer sonic trademark) puts me amid the apocalyptic scene, drained of color and hope, possessed alternately by hysterical bloodlust and resentment towards a deity once-thought benign, who would surely salvage not only my soul, but those of countless others.  The truth of it all freezes my spine.

Goddamn for real.

This song made your parents fear for your future, or they didn't love you enough.

"Die By the Sword"--If a blood jet can be considered poetry, Slayer are the incontestable bards of the Big 4.  This is the first of three songs credited solely to Jeff Hanneman, and that he could erect such a grotesquely beautiful monument at such a young age (19!) is wildly impressive. 

Check the chorus:  it sounds just like a sword striking down multiple blows on its unfortunate victim.  (Turns out you don't have to listen too hard for the steel.)  There's a casual rape reference, but a girl who's into heavy metal is a girl who has learned to accurately rate her potential battles.

"Fight Till Death"--Another spawn of Hanneman, the first in an extended series of Slayer Songs Detailing the Devastation of Warfare.  Nowhere are these junior killers sloppier than here, relegating the art of retaliation into a ramshackle ransacking.  Some people don't believe in such a thing as collateral damage, anyway.

"Metal Storm/Face the Slayer"--Two!  Four!  No, wait.  6!  8!  Yeah, that's the time signature we appreciate!

Music like this is for the Martin Plunketts of the world, those men who work out their minds and bodies with equal relish, leaving them with thick, corded muscles and impeccable game plans.  All the better to snap your neck, my dear, because the game is death.

The super-dramatic stabs at the end of each verse are stupendously cheesy.  They'd accompany a drastic zoom to the killer's face, snarling in demented ecstasy, were we in movie land.  But we're firmly ensconced in music land, and it ain't a thing to bitch about; we can still shove buttery popcorn into our half-open face-holes, exclaim our myriad of half-formed feelings at each unfolding scene, and we even get to witness a self-cannibalization! 

"Black Magic"--A caliginous view of wizardry, but wait.   Lots of metal bands dive into those depths, but I have a bigger question.  Are fade-ins punk?  Are they metal?  Are they punk-metal?  No.  They are simply cool.  An achievement which is able to be unlocked by everyone.

"Laughing in sorrow/Crying in lust."  When the body is pushed to the brink from a barrage of stimuli, all the buttons keep blinking, the alarms keep ringing--all it takes is a few mutilating curses thrown up into the air to turn it all around.

"Tormentor"--Choose the form of the tormentor!  Hail Satan laughing as you eternally rot, purveyors of wicked unfathomable terror and nocturnal gore!

The least stirring of Jeff's offerings, but so what. Keep awares, 'specially when the sun sets, so you can keep your wares.

"The Final Command"--I knew, casually, one other girl in high school who admitted to liking thrash metal.  She was my physical opposite:  large frizzy hair, a thoughtfully-decorated face, and a thin body which she used to display an acute fashion sense.  She told me that her mother once barged into her bedroom and caught her masturbating to "The Final Command" and ever since then, it had been her favorite Slayer song.

Wow.  Late one night my mom caught me trying to sneak a half-full bag of Cool Ranch Doritos out of the kitchen.

The very words "the final command" were spat out in "Fight Till Death," and I give respect to Slayer for connecting their war stories.  This one is told in a tighter voice speaking terser sentences, but the outcome is still predictable. 

"Crionics"--The Maiden…she approaches.  Her enchanting scent fills up the room.  Her terrible secret--that the government is planning to turn its unsuspecting citizenry into igloos--will die with her.  No one would ever believe such a preposterous tale, not from such a pretty face and anyway, she'll be one of the first frozen.

Bundle up.  It's cold out there, have you noticed?

"Show No Mercy"--Make 'em say UNGGHHH!  DIES IRAE, DIES ILLA!

The ending that could have signaled the beginning, but honestly, eternity doesn't have either, so don't sweat it.  Most hummable chorus about the imminent punishment of the enemy I've yet heard.  Enmity plus melody equals fuckin' metal.

The cataclysmic climax features a key change that the band can hardly hold onto.  It's not Kerry King's most diabolical pet, but it is pretty evil for a baby.




I revisit Show No Mercy often--the most of any Big 4 debut, in fact--but it's a bit like looking over a lover's baby pictures.  You can hardly believe someone so much a part of your life was ever so young.  And so goofy-looking.

The Slayer of 1983 did not want to fuck you with your own spine; they wanted to get shit-faced on Devil's Night, puke while wearing their masks, and hurl empties at trick-or-treaters.  While I feel that the proceedings would have benefited greatly from the use of the word "meretricious" somewhere in a lyric, a song titled "Punish the Artificer" and a cover featuring a photo of a blood-smothered child crying in its deceased mothers arms (instead of that goat-lord), hey, it's still a ghastly journey.

Metallica said "kill 'em all."  Slayer just fucking did it.

Let King Diamond Sort 'Em Out

Kill 'Em All
7/13/1983

Chronological adherence dictates I begin with Metallica, and that is fitting.  Of the Big 4, they are the most beloved in terms of record sales, ticket sales, and overall media coverage worldwide.  Their debut is either the first-ever thrash metal album or the first-ever thrash album to sell a significant amount of copies (sorry, Venom).  Either way, it's hard to believe anyone outside of Megaforce Records and the band themselves believed this was merely step one in a journey that would culminate with (relative) world domination.

"Hit the Lights"--Prior to the murder of everybody, Metallica released a now-legendary demo tape titled No Life Till Leather, comprised of seven songs which later saw light on Kill 'Em All (including "The Mechanix," which would later morph into "The Four Horsemen").  All serious Metallica fans should have by now heard this rough rider.  It's important not just for being an extensive glimpse at early Metallica, we're talking early Metallica:  joining vocalist/rhythm guitarist James Hetfield and drummer Lars Ulrich is lead guitarist Dave Mustaine and bassist Ron McGovney, both of whom would be dismissed brusquely by the time the band were ready to hit the studio and bring these songs to screaming filthy life.

Enter former Exodus guitarist (and future target of Mustaine derision) Kirk Hammett and former Trauma bassist Cliff Burton.   With those four men in place, Metallica truly began.

Mind you, they could have kicked off Kill 'Em All with a more captivating song.  It's basically any loud unfocused song any metal band in any area of California would have written in hopes of getting a label to take a chance on them.  Aural heat lightning.

"The Four Horsemen"--Right out of the castle gate, into the pitch.  The king's song rings; the populace goes pale.  They are coming.

They are here.

'Bout time.

The Bible is a handy source of fantastical fanatical shenanigans and future God-boy Dave Mustaine left behind a riff for the ages.  The galloping verses, searing chorus, and blood-bunching everything else signal greatness in potentia. 

Mind you, while drunk horndog metal dudes may deign to pick up a Bible they nicked from a hotel room, it's no guarantee that they'll read it too intently.  The Book of Revelation (AKA This Book:  Everybody Dies) mentions the horsemen as Conquest, War, Famine and Death.  Hetfield reeds  on about Time, Pestilence, Famine and Death.  Eh!  Different sources, different horses.*

"Motorbreath"--An ode to life in the fast lane that would gladly blow a red light just to mow down Don Henley, I've never been able to resist the raucous simple-mindedness that virtually pushes everyone--band, listeners--to the finish line.  But if you can track down the unofficially-released demo Power Metal, see if you agree with my preference for Hetfield's vocal take thereon.  On the KEA version, he comes off like an overly-confident baseball catcher, while on the demo he knows enough to wrap his still-limited voice around the word he's accenting.  A small thing, but still a thing.

Mind you, Mr. Rhyming Dictionary fails the boy hard on every version.

"Jump in the Fire"--An instantly memorable circular riff that disappoints only in reminding me how boss it would have sounded with some production that had hair on its chest.  And goddamn, that final solo volley leaves me with the lemon juice face. 

Here, "Jump" is a borderline-bouncy song that the minions of el diablo croak to entice souls into the wretched bowels of Hell.  But in demo form…

See, Mustaine not only crafted semi-majestic riffs and solos, he wrote lyrics too!  And before "Jump in the Fire" was evil it was sexual.

Moving my hips in a circular way
Just forward a bit
Pull your body into my waist
And feel how good it fits

That ain't sexy, not even a little bit.  (Having baby James Hetfield bark those words out does not help.  It's much more palatable hearing him talk about running around "with hell in my eyes/And with death in my veins.") And exactly what, in this here sordid context, is the song supposed to mean?  Was Dave equating the vagina with a pit of flame?  That's a tenuous metaphor, son.  Were you saying the snatch is VG or VD?

Given this choice between a few minutes fucking stinky drunk metal dudes or an eternity in agony…might as well jump.

"Anasthesia/Pulling Teeth"--This track is separated into the numbing process and the surgical extraction process.  Going under is the best; you get to hear a thick chunky fuzzy bass guitar running through classical scales lined up on the chopping block. 

Cliff Burton was never a precise, clean fingerpicking wizard ala Steve Harris of Iron Maiden.  He was a California gargoyle who absorbed the works of the great composers and radiated onto the standard influences of the New Wave of British Heavy Metal, galvanizing his bandmates as well as an entire generation of fledgling bassists.  He looked like he did nearly everything out of a bowl--but the man was all about his craft.  Technique plus emotion equals fuckin' metal.

It might seem odd that the bassist would get a centerpiece on the debut, but consider that when approached by James and Lars to join Metallica, he agreed with the caveat that the band uproot and relocate to San Francisco.  They did so without hesitation.

"Whiplash"--Emphatic!  Mission!  Statement!

This is "Hit the Lights" letting its nuts hang.  A bacchanalian endurance test, meant to separate the pretty boys from the gnarly freaks.  Welcome to Metallica Fan Appreciation Night, where everyone who pays to get in is the bobblehead. 

(Points awarded for dropping the word "thrash" in the chorus, as well.)

"Phantom Lord"--A frenetic and febrile tale of a malevolent dictator ('cause the benevolent ones are boring and die of old age), told over the sound of machete swaths and organ perforation.  I've found myself humming the chorus a time or two, but that might have been due to my lungs filling with various fluids at the time.  Gears of war, shifts of gear. 

"No Remorse"--A lesser bloodthirsty beast.  The chorus is an even peskier bastard than its predecessor, but otherwise this is six and a half minutes that could have been cut in half and been much mightier.  Or it could have just been the last 200 seconds.  In the words of Fred Schneider III, Esq.:  "LET'S ROCK!"

"Seek and Destroy"--This charmingly laid-back ode to fucking shit up down and all hell 'round is a sonic vagary contrasted with the other "invading army seeks to conquer villages/vines/vaginas" offerings which explode all around it with vehement vim.  Less a break in the action, or a deference to the weary ear, this is quiet confidence. 

Is it also utter wank?  Of course it's utter wank!  Guys, something isn't only accurately described as "wank" when you don't like it!

"Metal Militia"--We've had songs about martial lawlessness, gory battlefield tableus, and how totally fucking heavy metal Metallica is.  So let's just end the album by putting every song into this one song!  Hey, when the distributors refuse to let you call your record "Metal Up Your Ass," you gotta get all the aggression out somewhere.  So you shove the hammer so far up their butt it exits their mouth looking like a screwdriver. 

"Metal Militia" is nothing shocking, with a main riff that could benefit from an extra bolt and James Hetfield not sounding off like a drowning Jewish grandmother at the start of every line.





Kill 'Em All is worth owning not just as an artifact, but as proof that Metallica were not expelled unto the world as avaricious, pandering rock stars.  They were starving and growing and seeking just like so many other bands of their ilk.  Just had the right amount of extra skill, luck, and determination, is all.

It's also evidence that Lars Ulrich was, once upon a time, a powerful drummer.  His parts throughout give off the unmistakable vibe of an ascended fanboy who is not going to let his shot at glory turn out to be an impotent blank.  No doubt he had dreams of headlining Donington with every fill.

*As evidence that the Big 4 are not interchangeable in either sound or spirit, please consider that Slayer would not have switched out the war horseman.  They would made the entire song about him, other three be damned even more than they already are.

Experience the Fantastic--The Big 4 of American Thrash Metal

My first exposure to thrash metal came on a mild Sunday in 1986.  My older brother and a few of his friends would be out for most of the day, doing many of the things dudes in their late teens did for enjoyment in western Maryland while it was still light outside.  (I'm sure drinking weak-ass beer, smoking weak-ass weed and then going for a swim in tepid water was involved.)  This allowed me an opportunity to rummage through his music.

My brother occupied the far-west bedroom on the second floor of the house, but most of his valuables were kept in the attic--including his vinyl records and turntable.  A couple times a month, I'd get the chance to sneak up there and spin some black circles while gaping at gatefolds.  If my bro knew about my flagrant violation of House Rule #33--little sister shall leave big brother's stuff alone--he let it slide.  Maybe he knew, but realized that soon there would come a day.  A day when his pre-teen sibling would, in her haste to hear the latest and greatest from Satan's playlist, come across Slayer's Reign In Blood and realize she had not yet heard that one.

The tale of what transpired when that very scenario materialized--will have to wait.

Welcome to my latest--and likely lastest--discography review.  Forget dancing about architecture; this undertaking was like walking through a maze of cacti at midnight on a time limit.    Trapper Jenn MD, escaping without acupuncture.  Join me as I take a chronological look at the major releases of the so-called "Big 4" of American thrash metal:

Metallica--Formed 1981, in Los Angeles, when a hyperactive metal fanatic named Lars Ulrich begged Metal Blade Records bossman Brian Slagel for a spot on his label's forthcoming compilation album, despite not actually having a band.  One newspaper ad later brought Ulrich his bandmates.  One friends idea for a killer zine name provided the group their name.

Slayer--Formed 1981 in Huntington Park, CA.  Definitely did not take their name from some stupid movie.  Fans voted "Most Likely To Self-Immolate." 

Anthrax--Formed 1981 in New York City.  The only Big 4 band not from the West Coast.  If Slayer are the devil, Anthrax are the devil-may-care.  This lighthearted approach to heavy music earned them a devoted following, but has also resulted in their work being overlooked and underappreciated by many fans and media outlets who would have preferred Exodus be in their position.

Megadeth--Formed 1983 in LA after vocalist/guitarist Dave Mustaine was brusquely booted from Metallica. The most overtly political of the Big 4 since Day One.  Twenty men can claim to have been an official Megadeth member.

Combined, they've sold millions, earned billions, and formed like Voltron on special occasions to rock stages.  Buncha Venom and Iron Maiden fanboys who just wanted to play it louder, faster and eventually better.  Whilst boasting iconic fucking logos. 

Big 4 Review Series Next Month

Starting next month, and continuing through March, will be the discography reviews for the so-called "Big 4 of American Thrash Metal":  Anthrax, Megadeth, Metallica and Slayer.  46 records, 46 days.

Instead of posting reviews for the releases of one individual group then moving on to the next, I will be posting reviews of the albums in the order they were originally released in the U.S.

Experience the fantastic...

Hippies, Herpes, Same Goddamn Thing

For a time I suspected Strawberry Alarm Clock of being a "band" assembled by the FBI, or CIA, or one of them rascally alphabet soups for the sole purpose of infiltrating and eventually destroying the menacing hippie subculture of the 1960s.  Strawberry Alarm Clock were not undercover agents, of course, but can you really blame me for wondering?  The distressingly nonsensical band name is right out of the "get high, pick out an item in this room, put another random word in front of it, and that's what we'll call ourselves" chapter of the handbook.  Then there's their most (only) famous song, "Incense and Peppermints."  Every aspect of this tune screams the decade in which it was written and recorded.  The hyper-self-aware mystical dope lyrics ("Turn on, tune in, turn your eyes around/Look at yourself, look at yourself, yeah yeah") mesh near-perfectly with the musical menagerie (harpsichords and vibraphones and cowbells) to create a song that was destined to become a sonic marker of its time and nothing more.

It's almost a little too trippy.

Mind you, I think it's a good enough track.  It's not as amazing as "Journey to the Center of the Mind" by Amboy Dukes*, but it's a fair pace ahead of "Love the One You're With" by Stephen Stills**.  You can track down the album of the same name, but I found it it to be undistinguished and serviceable.  Not unlike strawberries sans sugar.




*AKA, the best thing Ted Nugent has ever been associated with.
**AKA, the worst thing Billy Preston has ever been associated with.