Before the holidays arrived again to re-dust the planet with extra consumer waste, we went to see Ministry, Primus, and Slayer at The Fabulous Forum in Inglewood, CA. It was said to be the last time Slayer would play live, so we figured a bit of psychedelic indulgence was in order, as a celebration of the end of a career we’ve loved since the 80s. The Lollapalooza flashback (of sorts) line-up just made drugs feel even more proper.
Ministry played their hits and kept their setlist in the 90s. The band’s machine-shop precision, speed, and intensity are still a worthwhile pummelling to endure. Al Jorgenson’s voice can be the darkest hellhound bark. Grim audio hypnosis. A singularity of purpose and style hammered together with a simple small-glowing cross staged in front of a cavern of red lights; Ministry are still a proper soundtrack to rage, frustration, and ding-a-long-dang-donging.
Primus knew we were already shuddering because the air was electric inside and outside our minds, and so provided wild bass guitar vibrations for us to ride around on. Light swirls accented, turning the big old gym into a bowl of peppermints. Claypool wore a candy-striped coat with tails, and we remember our cheeks hurting from smiling. 70 percent of the crowd was far less amused than us, not because of their lack of spiritual enhancements, but because 70 percent of Slayer fans are uni-emotional robots programmed to fist pump and yell. They’re not bad people as a lot, they just wanted a different vibe (though you could hear the whispers of wow at the heavy part of “Sgt. Baker” and a few other spots). Those damned blue-collar beer swillers have indeed always run towns, er shows, like this, but they at least kept their spontaneous Slayer bellows to a minimum during Primus’ rollicking set.
Slayer played four songs from their debut, Show No Mercy, at the beginning of their penultimate show. This news filled us with that uni-emotional robotic white light that makes being a Slayer fan something like its own drug. We wanted to hear those old songs with the same intensity that a cokehead wants a line. Alas, on its last night, the band subbed all but the title track for songs from the newer catalogue. We got the weaker hit. Can’t win ‘em all. It’s admittedly lame to whine about what was missed at such a monumental metal event as Slayer’s last show, but they had played “Evil Has No Boundaries” and “Black Magic,” and, well, fuck, they’re never playing anything again.
When you’re on the silly at a 2019 Slayer gig, three things stand out: Gary Holt’s burly arms, upside-down cross pyrotechnics, and Kerry King’s chains. The latter are some thick gauge steel suckers that could pull a building out of the ground, and King wears them dangling from his waist, like some elephant trunks crushing through the wild. It was a massive amount of chain, and made us think about the movie I’m Gonna Git You Sucka when the guy died OG – Over Gold – from too many gold chains. This is the kind of thinking that happens when you let Primus open up for Slayer.
Anyway, mostly emotionless, as expected, through the final performance, Tom Araya did manage to drop some ironic deadpan mid-show that would’ve made Steven Wright proud. After taking a breath and telling the crowd he never could think of what to say in big moments, he took another breath and instructed his frothing followers, “Always remember…happiness and joy.” And then they played “War Ensemble.”
Many hoped for a more ceremonial sort of ending (balloons would have been a nice touch), and most of the crowd stayed around chanting “Thank you Slayer” for far longer than we were willing to endure. No. Slayer was done. Its business finished. The straightforward energy of the songs was the only vibe the band would put forth. Just another show over. You got nothing special.
Well, you got Primus. Primus were the balloons.
Heavy Tales: The Metal. The Music. The Madness. – John Zazula
Megaforce Records was an early home to Metallica and Anthrax, and later brought Testament to the world. That’s three-fifths of thrash metal’s legendary Big Four (Megadeth and Slayer being the other two), so there’s some history in these pages. Laden with tales of Metallica drinking everyone’s beer in basements and attics and garages in New Jersey, and of the meetings and greetings of a whole pit full of bands, Zazula’s book starts at a swap meet where he and his wife first discovered the world of buying and selling rare records. The nascent metal scene gravitated to his music shop, and soon enough, he was booking bands that would end up becoming household names into any random room he could find. With some bumps and betrayals, a tragic bus crash, rap metal’s birth, and some acid cake along the way, all still ends up happily ever after.
A quick read. Perfect for: anyone you know who’s ever owned an Overkill t-shirt, or denim with a Venom patch. Bonus: Lots of pictures of great bands when they were skinny youngsters. Hardcover and digital copies available at www.jonzazula.com
Melody Makers: The Bible of Rock n’ Roll 
Melody Maker was a magazine. Magazines are like websites, but printed on paper, and without links or pop-ups about cookies. You could read them with your breakfast, and if you got sauce or coffee on them, it didn’t ruin your day. Melody Maker was a British music magazine. British music magazines were once the gatekeepers of all things hip, cool, groovy, and happening. Old British music magazine guys (it was mostly guys) want you to know that they used to have the keys to the kingdom, so they’re making docs about their salad days. Melody Maker started in the 1920s as a trade paper that mostly focused on jazz music, and the most interesting thing we learned from this documentary is that much of the staff quit in the early 1960s when some band called The Beatles was featured on the cover.
This doc should be called Still Pictures On Your Screen because it’s pretty much a collection of photos from the magazine’s chief contributing photographer from ‘65-’75, Barrie Wentzell. Old writers and editors talk about the time (insert rock icon name) dropped by the London office, because that’s how important music magazines were. Bob Dylan would just come by to make sure you weren’t misinterpreting his lyrics. You know what’s missing from this doc? Those rock icons themselves (that’s how unimportant music magazines are now). Those guys are expensive. Anyway, you get some stories of writers and photogs following artists around, including a time Keith Moon put on a Nazi uniform and wandered around London because, well, it’s never really explained, so let’s chalk it up to drunkeness and stupidity.
Even for a guy like me, who worked in the magazine world as it flopped on the boat deck dying, this is a dull bit. That final era is addressed in solemn tones. There are plenty of cool pics of great artists, but it may have been better as a coffee table book.
Gary Holt’s arms are actual Doric columns made of flesh.
Gary Holt’s arms could be an elephant’s legs.