Slayer live in 1999 -- in Vegas, not New Jersey. Sorry!
Then Slayer starts playing.
What I remember, weirdly enough, is how still I stood. Just watching, dumbstruck. Because it was evil. It was so menacing and grating, but in an oddly satisfying way.
All of the creepiest, most strung-out people in the crowd go apeshit for it, too. There’s a huge mosh pit in front of the stage -- and in the seats. And right next to us. The lead singer screams, “DANCE! WITH THE DEAD! IN MY DREAMS!” and everyone begins screaming along with him. I can’t look away; I’m transfixed. Intimidated, speechless, and amazed. What…the HELL…is THIS?
The rest of the show is great. Rob Zombie delivers all the pyro and and sexy devil girls that I could have hoped for, and I buy a shirt of his with the words ‘MOTHER FUCKER’ on the back, much to my mom’s chagrin. But Slayer is what sticks in my mind. That…was something else. I have know what that’s about.
Two weeks later, at summer camp, I write home and ask my mom to send me a copy of South of Heaven at the behest of my metalhead counselor Zack (now the frontman of crushing scum-metallers Nekrofilth). I spend the rest of the summer sitting on porches listening to the album over and over. By the time I show up for Freshman year of high school, I’m wearing spiked leather and contemplating my first tattoo. I’m in.
Twenty years later…
It’s June of 2018, and my fiancée patiently listens to me tell the above story for maybe the billionth time as we drive out to Holmdel. The traffic is bad, and we’re forced to park a mile away from the venue. This wouldn’t be a problem if I’d let my editor at Kerrang! get me comped for decent seats, as per his suggestion. But I’ve refused. If we’re to believe the band’s PR reps, this will be Slayer’s last tour ever. I had to do things right, just in case they’re serious: I wanted to buy my own tickets. I wanted to stand on the lawn with all the other broke motherfuckers. I wanted to bring my fiancée, who has never seen Slayer. It’s the principle of the thing.
Nearly two decades have passed, and nothing’s changed: The lawn is patchy and muddy, and the stage still has the same awful semi-operational screens on both sides. The crowd is also exactly the same as it was in ’99: dudes with bald spots and baggy pants smoking dirty weed; longhairs in battle jackets windmilling to the between-set Pantera tracks; the few chicks with dyed hair dressed like goth ballerinas.
Testament is awesome as always, though it feels a bit weird that such a legendary thrash act would go on first, in broad daylight. Behemoth is also rad, but feels smaller than usual as spectators continue to trickle in. Anthrax is a blast, and is the first band I pump my fist and yell to. And then Lamb of God remind us all that they’re likely the best live band in metal today, with tight renditions of classics like “Now You’ve Got Something To Die For” that get the crowd moving. Vocalist Randy Blythe is in rare form.
By the time the lights go down for Slayer’s entrance, the lawn is packed; a glance in either direction shows a staggering crowd for a thrash metal band that sings about serial killers and Satanic warfare. And now, no longer having to separate itself from the unnecessary fanfare of nu-metal, the band has created an awesome stage-show to behold: On a translucent screen, projected crosses invert before our eyes; two giant flaming metal pentagrams with the band’s name dance at the center. Behind it all, rhythmic jets of fire throw flames 20 feet high. But for all the new set pieces, Slayer is reliably without costume or pretense. Kerry King’s glistening bald head is visible from all the way back on the lawn.