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Show Report: Anthrax, Megadeth, Slayer![]() Love Slayer fans. Love the rep that precedes them. Uneducated, meat-headed knuckle-draggers, fitted with hair triggers ‘n’ ready to bust mucho ass over anything everything nothing even as they are far too and forever busy screaming SLAYURRRRRRRRR!, headbanging, fist-pumping, frothing at their collective mouth. Theirs is mindset ‘n’ reactive ordinance akin to little else in this ugh ever-shrinking world. Contrasted with unmerciful metastasis of nodding, folded-arms, quiet cool embraced ‘n’ aped by “metal” audiences from Tampa to Trenton, Slayer fans are at best off-putting, at worst convenient “feature” topic for sociologically geared penbangers. They “ruin” shows for some. They’re reason numero uno for diehards losing charge and finding long labyrinthine ways away from the band’s discography. They’re easy camera fodder. Hard drinkers. Hard smokers. Hard moshers. Hard livers. Harry Crews and Katherine Dunn couldn’t create misfits as marginalized as first 20 rows at any given Slayer show. Love Slayer fans. Love ‘em. Love that they irk the nodding, folded-arms, quiet cool showgoer. Love that they are in essence Metal, not nice, always already a downer, a drawback, a deep motherfucking downside. No different here at the ATL’s installment of tah-dah American Carnage Tour. Queue openers Anthrax. Queue Belladonna Jersey howls. Queue Scott Ian wardance. Queue beer run. Some dope with mohawk gets up and hellfuckinyeah bros, lookit them Jager babes. Show your tits, we scream. Queue Mustaine in Seinfeld “pirate shirt.” Megadeth does megaset from last February. Mustaine’s anti-immigration, pro-Braves “soliloquy” sadly absent. Rust in Peace sounds like homogenous, ho-hum thrash record it is, even over Gwinnett Arena’s hideous PA. Queue beer run. See meatheads screaming: SLAYURRRRRRRR! See fights. See cops cuffing fighters. See girlfriends crying. See no-necked meathead trying to buy 24oz Yuengling. See vendor pick through wadded singles and change and shake to piece together the $12. Queue dope with mohawk. Ah, hellfuckingyeah, bros, lookit them Jager babes. Show your tits, we scream. Queue lights. Queue curtain littered with pentagrams. Queue Slayer. Few too many tunes from latest travesty, reminding me they haven’t produced a great studio record since Reign in Blood. Haven’t seen ‘em since late ‘80s. Hanneman still wears Raiders’ jersey, leather jeans. King still wears stupid shit (a gaggle of heaviest chain link), looking still the dwarfin Gimli on steroids. Araya still longhaired, leather jeans, “You guys havin’ a good time tonight?!” Lombardo san, backwards baseball cap, a Hesse Siddhartha: He the river, the river he, a current a pool a riffle a roaring rushing force o’ NRG ‘n’ skin ‘n’ alloy. Yup. They blow through Seasons front to back. Note-fur-Note, ‘cept for solos, which Hanneman goofs big on, blowing out overdriven cosmic blitzkrieg when given the opportunity. I’ve paid $50 to hear them play three songs: “Reign in Blood,” “Angel of Death,” “Aggressive Perfector.” It’s fucking worth it. Slayer is rusted Panzer rolled out onto stage discharging once thought expired ordinance. Slayer is old. Slayer is ancient. Slayer is Slayer. Araya can’t move his neck. Hanneman headbangs doubly for Araya. Hanneman King still does stupid shit. Lombardo san flows Nile like. Araya, stiff as cadaver, hits “the scream” in “Angel…” When they burst into “Aggressive Perfector” the last three onces of my $12 beer go flying. Thank you. Goodnight. They’re gone. King remains. Can hear his chains jingle. Some dope hands him paper cup of Jager. King downs it. Meatheads cheer. King still does stupid shit. [Stewart Voegltin] Related
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Fuck that bro with the mohawk. But he did compliment my Nuclear Assault shirt. Although he probably would have done the same even if it'd been All That Remains or whatever.
After the show, crazed metal dudes screaming SLAYYYYYURRRRRR made me take photos of them with Killick. I guess because he's got tattoo face. He told them, jokingly, that he wasn't Kerry King. I don't think they got the joke.
Good times.
Still want to say "hi" to you one day.
HS: These things cannot long be hidden: Sun, moon, the truth that RIP is homogenous, ho-hum.
Robert: Let me know when you're coming in for another show and you can watch me do my "warm-up" routine.
Opy: Naw. Robert's just got advanced degrees and reads more than he watches television.
-c: Did Alice in Chains play "Would"?
The Right Hand Path: I make you laugh a lot, don't I?
Trummer: Thanks. They COULD all be like that if I typed 'em on my wife's BlackBerry on the way to the beach.
"Gimli on steroids." Priceless.
I totally get the "carny circuit." I saw them first in '90, supporting SOH. I wish to god that they would play a smaller venue, like the Masqerade, so we could get *that* experience one last time.