By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
That's putting it mildly. Even after nearly two decades of sonic dismemberment, King reacts to the subject of heavy music like a starving dog responds to roadkill: by sinking his teeth into it and getting messy. Moreover, his enthusiasm for such mayhem seems completely unaffected by commercial considerations. If the members of Slayer had softened up their sound over the years (and reduced the thematic body count), they'd probably be headlining arenas right now. But, no: King, vocalist/bassist Tom Araya, guitarist Jeff Hanneman and drummer Paul Bostaph continue to utilize bloodthirsty riffing, screaming solos, lightning-quick tempos and couplets about death and what leads to it, just as they always have. And King insists that the act's next album, due for release in early 2001, won't significantly change that equation.
"It's pretty much along the lines of what we've done in the past," he notes. "If I wanted to do a departure, I'd do a side project or something. But the fans say, 'Stick to your guns,' and that's what we're doing. We evolve a bit, but we do it within the realm of the Slayer sound. I mean, I could go out and write Bon Jovi songs all day, probably, but I'd get laughed right off the stage. And it'd take a fucking long time, too, just coming up with those sappy lyrics. Who needs that?"
Red Rocks Amphitheatre, Morrison
Not King, who initially describes himself as "the Stephen King of metal" before reconsidering. "Actually, that's probably not bad enough," he says. "Whoever the worst guy is out there right now, that's me."
And so it's been for a long, long time. King, Araya, Hanneman and original drummer Dave Lombardo co-founded Slayer in Huntington Beach, California, just south of Los Angeles, in 1982. They soon evolved from a brawny cover band (Iron Maiden tunes were a staple) to an act with a distinctively nasty streak. A track on Metal Blade Records' Metal Massacre III compilation led to a contract with the company, which issued Slayer's debut, Show No Mercy, in 1983. It wasn't pretty, which is precisely why the kids in the grimy SoCal metal underground so readily clasped it to their collective bosom.
A couple of EPs (1984's Haunting the Chapel and Live Undead) and another long-player (1985's Hell Awaits) broadened the cult, but it took 1986's Reign in Blood to make Slayer notorious. Co-produced by Rick Rubin, the Def Jam honcho who helped push hip-hop into the mainstream via his work with the Beastie Boys and many others, the disc is an aural blueprint of the relentless amphetamine roar that's being made by basement-dwelling malcontents to this day. Better yet, it avoids many of the stereotypes that would come to define the genre in later years. For instance, Araya's singing is passionate and brutal, yet lacking in the sort of Lurch-meets-Cookie Monster growling that turns so much death metal into a parody of itself. It's no wonder that Kerrang magazine christened it the best thrash-metal album of all time.
But, oh, those words. Beyond some of the most violent imagery ever committed to vinyl, Reign, reissued in an expanded edition by the American imprint two years back, juxtaposes "Altar of Sacrifice," an ode to the dark side of the force ("Learn the sacred words of praise: 'Hail Satan'"), with "Jesus Saves," which takes numerous straight-to-the-fly shots at Christianity ("You spend your life just kissing ass.../In an invisible man you place your trust"). And that's not to mention "Angel of Death," a gruesome portrait of Dr. Josef Mengele, the butcher of Auschwitz, that sports such lines as "Destroying without mercy/To benefit the Aryan race/ Surgery with no anesthesia/Feel the knife pierce you intensely/Inferior, no use to mankind/ Strapped down, screaming out to die."
Because of such verbal bouquets, Columbia, Def Jam's distributor, balked at circulating the album (in the end, Geffen Records did the job), spawning a controversy that brought Slayer even more attention. Before long, the majority of the press coverage implied that, as King tells it, "we were neo-Nazi devil worshipers." Today he laughs off this interpretation, indicating that Reign's topics were chosen mainly because they provoked such extreme reactions among the Mom-and-Dad contingent. But the reputation follows the band to this day, with at least one fan Web site declaring that King remains affiliated with the Church of Satan. King hoots at that contention, too.
"I've never been part of the Church of Satan," he says. "I couldn't even get halfway through the Satanic Bible, because it's worded in a way that would make anyone think they were Satanists. It's propaganda bullshit."
Such distinctions were lost on many of Slayer's boosters, including the small percentage who had a tough time recognizing the line between the fantasy world and the real one: All of the featured guests on an infamous episode of Geraldo about "kids who kill" named Slayer as a personal fave. Given that, it's no wonder the band became a target of the Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC), a de facto censorship group overseen by Tipper Gore, whose husband, Al, was then a senator from Tennessee.