Revenge Is a Dish...

KILLING IS MY BUSINESS...AND BUSINESS IS GOOD!
6/12/85

Roll call!

Dave Mustaine--vocals, guitar
Chris Poland--guitar
Dave Ellefson--bass
Gar Samuelson--drums

Before we get started on the music, we have to discuss the origins of Megadeth.

Dave Mustaine wanted to kill his former bandmates.  Musically, I mean, not literally (if they were dead, listeners would have no way of knowing how much better he was).  After having the peach-flavored gonads to send him packing, Metallica released their debut--with a couple of his songs, no less--and caused a sensation in the metal underground.  Sitting and sulking on the Greyhound bus headed home, Dave noticed an anti-nuclear pamphlet issued on behalf of California state Senator Alan Cranston referring to the "arsenal of megadeath," a "megadeath" being the equivalent of one million human deaths at the hand of a nuclear weapon.

Death plus lots of death plus nasty way to die equals fucking metal.

Before we get started on the music, we have to discuss the original album cover.  Let's converge peacefully and speak rationally.

If I were a metal fan in 1985, scouring the racks of record shops for new music, and I happened upon that, I would snort and skip on to the next.  I would see a plastic skull decorated with tinfoil and decide instantly that this "Megadeth" were a gaggle of mere glands who thought it would be fun to spend Mommy and Daddy's cash on some instruments yet none of it on artwork.  Yes the Fistful of Metal cover is terrible, but at least it doesn't look like the drummer's five-year-old half-brother was entirely responsible for its concept and creation.

I wouldn't have known that the guys in the band were actually hard-living, dog-dick-broke addicts of superlative talents.  I wouldn't have known the juicy backstory.  I wouldn't have known that the rampaging incompetence of Combat Records was to blame for the pathetic Halloween decoration above, as it was they who lost the original artwork sent to them by the band for the desired cover and thus took it upon themselves to slap together a cheap-ass version of Dave Mustaine's envisioned "band mascot," the truly inimitable Vic Rattlehead.

As it turned out, I got into Megadeth late anyway.  Aesthetics were not to blame, but simply the relatively limited opportunities afforded me by my brother's record collection (my preferred source of music after I deemed long-time hook-up MTV to be a lost cause).  He was a late convert to the 'Deth train and thus so was I.

"Last Rites/Loved to Death"--Dave Mustaine's memorable musical accomplishments actually do outnumber his non-musical ones (although the gap has been narrowed considerably since the beginning of this century).  Yes he was kicked out of Metallica for drinking too much, yes he ingested enough drugs for every single man that's passed through his command.  Of course he tried to poach Kerry King from Slayer, of course he became born-again.  Naturally he accused the President of staging mass murders to enact new laws that would further handcuff the American people.

He's an asshole and he can be an asshole.  If you're dazzling at what you choose to do with your life, you can make a damn fine living.

Metallica goes acoustic for their unorthodox song intros; Megadeth brings pianos.  Which is nice.  But "Loved To Death" is the money track, babies.  "Raw" and "thrilling" are the two words most prominent in my mind here, but those overused adjectives do a double disservice to the unique experience of hearing early Megadeth for the first time.  Even at this point in time, Mustaine and Co. are writing and recording tracks that are more structurally complex and lyrically eclectic than those by their peers.  "Loved To Death" concerns the classic "If I can't have you no one else can, bitch" trope.  Slayer ain't caring about all that. 

Then there are the vocals.  Mustaine clearly had/has a love/hate relationship with being a frontman (a role he only took on reluctantly, after months of searching for a suitable singer proved fruitless).  His wizened voice has been a dealbreaker for some since day one (source:  middle school).  I may have been a little put off at first, but I got used to it.

"Killing Is My Business…And Business Is Good!"--What endears me to this song--this album--is not the long-ass title.  I dig how it's obvious Megadeth are some painstaking craftsmen but the production is just not on point.  It's like a really good recording of a garage rehearsal…from the other side of the door. 

"Skull Beneath the Skin"--Christ, what is with the yelling?  Make it count one time, Dave. 

I can't imagine that describing a song as "an electrifying flight down endless dungeon chambers on the back of a steel-backed, sapphire-eyed dragon" would ever be negative.  Bless 'Deth for possessing sense enough to realize that enunciating fantastical doggerel only plagues the adventure.

"These Boots"--One of the most audacious moves made by any metal band, much less a legendary one.  Not an especially smart one, in retrospect.

The original is a sly, grooving feminist statement; this alleged cover is a crass guy calling out sluts over unspectacular rawk that doesn't even let super Dave Ellefson shine.  So why bother?  I'm sure Dave related to Nancy Sinatra, both of them being singers of marginal talent with other, stronger assets to carry them through (hands are to Dave as legs were to Nancy).  It's worth one good listen, but that's all.

"Rattlehead"--The brutal barrage of notes is a loving mimic of the frenzied audiences, the lackluster mix a tribute to the fans' aversion to hygiene. 

A "fuck-yeah-metal!" anthem that is very good but not terribly memorable (needs extra salsa).  If you're alone in your room, craving volume and weight, put on "Whiplash." 

"Chosen Ones"--Death by rabbit?  (King Kong Bunny!)  Narrator Dave the Disenchanted is here to help us make sense of the madness.  A rare early example of Mustaine attempting melodic singing without resorting to the safety zone of strangulation on every last syllable.  Good one to sip a beer too, but no big swallows recommended.

"Looking Down the Cross"--Surprisingly bloodless for a song from the betrayed JC's POV.  Then I remember, it's his dad who is the cold-blooded murdering prick.

Reason 23 to be in a metal band:  you get to put the words "putrefying pestilence" in your song and no one bats eye one.

The start is riveting, with a crystalline bridge running above a leaf-dotted lake.  Those who cross will find an old man, croaking.  Turns out he was one of the wait staff at the Last Supper and boy howdy does he have some stories to tell.

"Mechanix"--What a frenzied li'l dumbbell session this is.

All those metalheads with balls enough to attack hip-hop lyrics for being "incomprehensible yelling," and meanwhile here's immutable documentation of a future icon opening up his mouth just for rotting trash and half-dead small animals to fall out.  From the fellow who penned the stunted-sexuality masterpiece "Jump in the Fire," I expect no less.

The first recorded "Mechanix" appeared on Metallica's No Life Til Leather demo.  It was later re-imagined for their debut as "The Four Horsemen."  The main riff is undeniable, however, and in the hands of its creator is even faster and nuttier-sounding.  But unlike Metallica's more thoughtful version, Megadeth keeps it simple and stupid.  No abrupt mood swings, no neck-snapping breakdowns…it's just "Mechanix."  Because fuck you, band that fired me.

The "X" is here 'cause this track is a cars/sex metaphor 'cause holy wow I love it when dudes compare chicks to large loud things that depend on someone else to go anywhere in life.  The lyrics are terrible ("made my ball bearing melt from the heat"?  Kill my soul, please) but again, the music is so batshit and Mustaine is so intent on not being understood, you can enjoy the song without cringing too hard.



The lackluster production values of Megadeth's early albums made them sound relatively puny compared to their brethren--please note I said "relatively."  For their debut, the guys blew their budget on the good stuff in life and had to chuck their original producer.  A band behind the boards for their first album is a bit like the defendant who acts as his own attorney during trial, but shit happens.  The songs were essentially good enough, and this becomes even more apparent if and when you listen to the remasters released in the early 2000s.  For the Killing reissue, you also get the intended album cover, which is worlds more metal and would have had 1985-me snatching that shit up and running to the cash register. 

You also get an edited "These Boots."  Seems that songwriter Lee Hazelwood--after a quarter-century signing royalty checks--decided he suddenly disapproved of Mustaine's lyrical monkeyshines, and the only way Killing could be reissued with its most infamous track would be sans profanities.  Thus, the track many fans still refer to as "These Beeps."

I would rate this the least-impressive of the Big 4 debuts, as it has a couple songs I always skip.  For an eight-song record, that is not great.  But Megadeth's attitude and ability bleed all over the other six tracks, and it's clear that with time, effort, and enough money to pay a decent producer while still having some left over for drugs, they could go farther. 

Selected and Exhumed

HELL AWAITS
3/1985

Wherein four evil fuckers de-emphasize the puerility and assert the gore for their sophomore effort.

"Hell Awaits"--Doom is the air.  Breathe it in, you'll believe it then.  Wear your mask backwards to confuse the angels.  Don't forget to tip Charon at ride's end.

Slayer are no longer naive kids trying out the Ouija board.  Nor are they content to roleplay as the king Donn.  They have matured into villainous cretins with distorted visions.  Still dying by the sword.  (Really, they gave us fair warning on their last release.)

Of the song's six minutes, the first is dedicated to a taped conversation held on a demonic sex chat line.  The next two are a riff parade that must've made metal bands worldwide gnash their yellowing teeth.  Slayer could have excised any random part and had a strong starting point for another song.  But nah.  They just had to stitch 'em all together into a fiery Frankenstein's monster as adopted by Demogorgon.

That leaves the second half of the song, a roaring success despite production that sounds best-suited for NES game soundtracks.   The band as a whole are playing much tighter together, and the lyrics are classic:  "Hells domain," "damnation's edge," "Satanic laws prevail"--Kerry King must have had a C4 time writing this.  "Pray to the moon/When it is round."  Not pray to the full moon.  I love this damned band.

Much as I dig hearing about the minions crashing Heaven, slaughtering God, and corrupting all the pure souls, I also like the concept of a vengeful Lord who punishes those mortals who have perverted "the moral order" by hurling them to his archenemy's stomping grounds.  Reluctant detente between deities or all-out war to settle the score?  Is Hell a finite form of torture, or is the soul's suffering truly eternal?

"Kill Again"--It's a thin line between, "I'd like to punch you in the face" and "I'd love to stab you in the neck."  Capable men of despair and death are far more engrossing than men of prosperity and life. 

Imagine being bound and blindfolded in the back seat of a nondescript vehicle as it drives in interminable circles. Imagine your hair being pulled, your neck being twisted, your bell being thoroughly rung.  Imagine a fate beyond your imagination.

After all the songs referencing the slayings of women, it's refreshing to hear Tom Araya command the listener to "Watch the infant die."

Not even halfway through their second album, it is apparent that Dave Lombardo is the best drummer in all of the Big 4.  We haven't even heard Megadeth yet, but it doesn't matter. 

"At Dawn They Sleep"--Slayer switch from Satan to serial killers to sun-shunners.  The lurch is pure zombie, though.  Tom plays the role as an undead homicidal maniac with relish, far more an Eric than a Bill.

Another epic circle, but "Dawn" knocks the mighty title tune on its smoldering keister.  The "Kill" chant, for my money--and keep in mind, I am homeless as I write this--is even more powerful than "Creeping Death"'s legendary "Die!" exhortations.  The gear shift is suffused with blood-draining menace, and Tom sounds a half-second away from ripping both your throat and his.

Lombardo's double-bass solo near the end is superfluous and superb. 

"Praise of Death"--More earthly pain!  No exquisite build-up either, just boot in the door and toss a grenade into the pantry.  Drop magazines on the coffee table.  Firebomb the toilet.  Call the cops and order a pizza.

Less a song than a mouth-dropping tornado of notes, beats and barks, "Praise of Death" communicates fluidly with all apex predators.  Add in the brief bass break and the glorious yawn of feedback, and you have Slayer's most overlooked song.

"Necrophiliac"--Women:  don't beat 'em, eat 'em!

Do the Dark Lord or any of his minions ever fuck just for the fun of it?  Why is the goal of demoniac diddling always the conception of the Antichrist?  (I guess it's preferable to being one of heaven's angels, flying that celibate life.)  And why should Slayer be slaves to mythology?  Defy!  Defy!

I shy away from intricate lyrical analysis, especially when dealing with a band who admits to writing about matters of evil for shits and more shits).   Often I find it foolhardy to even proffer a unique interpretation of a general overall theme, given the capriciousness of the creative mind.  But "Necrophiliac" is about banging a dead chick and somehow impregnating her,  I feel sure of this.

"Crypts of Eternity"--All have perished.  Hell awaits.  The gatekeeper is the seventh son of a seventh son.  From here to there (to where?) requires a demented carousel ride that would make Willy Wonka wet 'em.

It's really not very nice of Slayer to bust out the Strappado and then spin my body over and over and over, but the experience has left an indelible impression on more than just my joints.  Last time I'll try and sneak Rollos from the forbidden candy bowl!

"Hardening of the Arteries"--The proverbial shady spot.  I love Jeff Hanneman. Why say "death is certain" when you can instead say "Death is assured in future plans"?  (Also, this is the only track on Hell Awaits written by only one member.)

Musically, a slightly subdued "Praise of Death," and a bitchin' way to end the…whoa!  Oh crap!  Hell Awaits is lapping itself!  Slayer make depravity sound like the only sensible way to go.



Comprised of a mere seven songs (one for each son, then?) and boasting some amateurish production, Hell Awaits is still one of my very favorite Slayer albums.  The tracks are vicious and focused; intensive training have served these soldiers of metal very well.  And honestly, how could you not hoist one up for any band that will literally piss on its influences?

Our Electric Band

7/30/84
RIDE THE LIGHTNING

Recorded in Denmark with producer Flemming Rasmussen, Ride the Lightning showed a band making Brobdingnagian strides in writing and performance.  Although there are a couple tracks which continue Kill 'Em All's manic obsession with war and mythology, this album is earthier and more relatable--and better.

"Fight Fire With Fire"--In their 30-plus years of more-or-less music-making, Metallica have three  impeccably-crafted kick-starts to songs.  "Fight Fire With Fire" is the earliest of the trio, a Renaissance-styled acoustic piece that puts me in mind of a poncy prince posing for a portrait.  But, turns out, all that prettiness is really portentous.

This destroys "Hit the Lights."  Everything sounds like burning.  The flashover wasted zero seconds and showed zero mercy.  People who get off on tap dancing on the threshold of pain will find much to make their bodies move.

James Hetfield is less whiny throughout, and his throat is showing the effects that touring has on a still-developing vocalist.  Kirk Hammett steps even further away from Dave Mustaine's shadow, his solos flagrant and foul, spiraling like Fiendfyre, only with the added bonus of control.

"Fight Fire With Fire" was made for--and quite possibly by--those dudes who lived day-to-day in a rapidly-Reaganing country.  "Dog has fleas?  Burn it.  Grandma has the flu.  Shoot her.   Bedroom window's cracked?  Throw me through it."  Those guys who always seemed to have leftover Chinese in the fridge, y'know?

"Ride the Lightning"--Not an anti-capital punishment screed (just ask the fella who wrote it).  The lyrics are a stark snapshot of a condemned man's last day on Earth, and the music takes pains to detail every shallow rapid breath from his lungs and each frightening palpitation in his chest.  Cold sweat on warm skin gone green at the sight of that chair, that salad bowl, those straps.  Realizing that is the place where, and the method by which, you will die.  This man took someone else's life into his own hands--that's bad!  Now someone else is taking his life into their hands--that's good!

Hetfield loses a bit of his newly-acquired vox control here at times, but given the songs subject matter, the occasional squeals can be forgiven.  My forbearance is greatly boosted by the break at 3:12, when Hetfield starts to play a marvelously repetitive mid-tempo riff over which Hammett goes many gates of Hell off.  (Life flashing before your eyes, at a different speed in each orb.)  And that makes two straight songs with exhilarating rhythm tracks laid masterfully underneath lead work that is nearly-as.  Neatly done, gentlemen.

"For Whom the Bell Tolls"--The bell sounds at the beginning are quite trite and cliche (not to mention mad AC/DC, son) but Metallica promptly follow them up with a game-changer.  That squirrelly riff is being played on a bass.  When I first heard this, I had zero comprehension as to how that could even be a bass guitar.  Forgive my ignorance!  I was quite young then, and a girl atop of that, and girls are the confirmed worst (source:  Internet).  When I saw live footage of "Bell" weeks later on the Cliff 'Em All laser disc, I was dumbfounded at the sight and sound.  Looking back now, I'm equally astounded that my brother owned a laser disc player.

At 0:57 the chromatics chunk up, that sort of nasty surge that might cause scrunch-face or punch-face.  After a breather, a melodic section I like to call "The Ruling Threes" takes center stage.  Another fucking transition, then finally, we hit the verses.  This is another war anthem, but unlike the near-lascivious offerings on Kill 'Em All, "Bell" takes the bluntly fatalistic approach, outlining a battleground stomped upon by regular men wielding slightly-irregular weapons.  The title and subject matter were taken by Ernest Hemingway's 1940 novel.  Dunno how much quality reading time Hetfield was able to sneak in, what with doing shots of Jack out of aspiring strippers' belly buttons and pissing everywhere but toilets, but it's no surprise that he'd gravitate to Papa.  All those short sentences.  All that short-penis overcompensation.

Ride the Lightning was the most-played album of freshman year, and no song inspired me to press the "back" button on the CD player more than "For Whom The Bell Tolls."

"Fade To Black"--A minor-riot occurred among the fanbase when this tenderly-plucked ballad sifted out of speakers.   Bud cans were crushed...denim was ripped...allegiances were switched...fans spat at James Hetfield.  Listeners who stuck around were rewarded with some heavy, solemn shit.  The soliloquy of a no-hoper is pie-easy to relate to, but "Fade To Black" lacks the insight to make James' words something other than.  "Life sucks you suck I suck let's die" is a "ten gets you twelve" sentiment in the world of heavy metal.

Thankfully, Hetfield the musician possesses a wider, deeper capacity for effusive expression than Hetfield the lyricist does.  Come for the basic suicidal yearnings, stay for the stretch of soloing that commences after the chair has (presumably) been kicked away.   It's the "Comfortably Numb" of metal.*

"Trapped Under Ice"--It would be super if this expanse of burnt blue was not a metaphor of isolation/alienation.  It would be magnificent if "Trapped Under Ice" were in fact about a person trapped in a frozen body of water.  Or sealed in a cryogenic chamber.  Or hogtied in a Kenmore Elite.
Dumb as the topic may be, the band brings the heat.  Kirk's fissure-creating volley of notes, James' Death Point-Striking Riffs hitting sharks square on their hearts, and some of Lars' more noteworthy drumming (especially how he tests for cracks at the end of the first verse).

"Escape"--Now.  Was the scruffy, spotty, short-sighted portion of the fanbase also pissed about this poppy venture, or were they too busy beating their girlfriends over "Fade To Black" still?

Yes, "Escape" is poppy.  Mmm, I love pop music.  Some people don't.  Some people can't wait for the opportunity to slander their heroes, knowing deep down that idolatry is dumb.

The opening chords are more water than vodka, but soon enough the punk-ish lyrics (Independence!  You can't make me compromise!  "Feel no pain but my life ain't easy!") arrive with a fresh bottle.  Honestly all I need is the chorus.  Basically we have James singing and playing in front of a mirror.  I imagine some vessels burst hearing Hetfield harmonize but again...I love me some pop.  And it's not like this is Spandau Ballet, it's still fucking Metallica.

"Creeping Death"--That riff.  That riff.  Pharaohs announce the dawn of their reigns to such sounds.  Then God kills their kid.

It is all about the bridge, AKA "Die!  Die!  Die!"  This goes over like a Hetfield on fire at gigs, explaining why only one other song in their catalog has been played live more times than "Creeping Death."  The riff was taken from Hammett's days in Exodus and judging by the title, that wasn't the only thing the Metalli-dudes decided to borrow.

Exodus 12:29 in the King James Bible concerns God heartlessly laying down a plague upon Egypt that wipes out all first-born children, beginning with the Pharaoh and working on down.  Cool as the lyrics here, nothing is on the level of "and there was loud wailing in Egypt, for there was not a house without someone dead."  Say what you will as loud as you can about the Bible, that thing is endlessly quotable.

"The Call of Ktulu"--A nine-minute instrumental co-credited to Mustaine.  This is pretty much what happened to the poor schlub from "Trapped Under Ice":  he was devoured by a great old one.  Aw.  I'm sure it's warm in the intestinal tract.  And gross.  Which suddenly reminds me I've never visited the state of Florida.



Ride the Lightning gained Metallica ever more converts to their caustic cause, and has aged very well.  Decibel magazine named it "Best Thrash Metal Album" in 2011, and while I would not go that far, it's definitely among the greatest of the genre (and my second-favorite by Metallica). 


*"Fade To Black" inspired a number of the band's more impressionable fans, so it's almost hilarious to learn that James Hetfield was driven to write the lyrics after the theft of Metallica's equipment during a tour stop in Boston.  Part of me is, Wow dude, really?  Yet another part tries to sympathize.  It's tough indeed for musicians when the tools of their trade are swiped by ne'er-do-wells.  The expense can be enormous, for one.  Whereas if I lose my last live pen, I can just walk to CVS and buy another whole pack of the damn things.

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.