‘F Orty years ago, man. Duuuuude, “Tom Araya Exhala, reflecting on Slayer’s Maiden show with gob in the UK at the London club in 1985. They were just kids, about to become the most belligerent force in the single, what if metal, but the bastiteiro is what is what is what can be done the silent, but the single backstage, but the bastiteiro, but the backstage, what can be the silent and the bastijon, but what can be what can be the silent and the backstage of the backstage, but what can be the silent, what can be the silent, what can be the silent, what can be the silent, what can be what can be what can be done the silent, what can be the silent, what can be what can be what can be what the bastitur and the bastiturista, what is the silent, the supplica and the supplica. To spare, immediately calling for an approach of a set of war suitable for loosening the teeth of a dozen front ranks.
Orbiting their contribution to Black Sabbath’s upcoming final show in Birmingham, this is Slayer’s first UK date in six years after a final tour that, unsurprisingly, received metal’s uneven record in that sense, it wasn’t so final after all. There’s little sense of a timid resurgence, however, with a lengthy video package chronicling the band’s history rising south of the sky’s inimitable riff that immediately gets the crowd’s throats before drummer Paul Bostaph’s double-kick “Faram” the Kinetic May.
Their soundscape is lean and relentless. There’s no breathing, no ballads. Their most melodic moment is “Seasons of the Abyss,” which even in these bucolic surroundings is a nightmare of a song. Guitarist Kerry King plays with punishing intensity, his mutt solos blending with dexterous leads from a swaggering Gary Holt, the exodus riffer who took over from the late Jeff Hanneman just over a decade ago. The duo assembles Jihad’s constituent parts methodically, building piece by piece in anticipation of their descent into chaos.
There’s spectacle—amid a returned disciple of two upside-down crosses made from burning Marshall cabinets—but it’s pointed. Where Amon Amarth’s Viking warriors and drinking horns are obviously for entertainment, Slayer remains a shocking proposition, its churning riffs punctuated by gritty, grim images of endless war. During the blood rain, which remains a perfect metal song, the screens make it look like red things are pouring from the sky, plunging into audience and band. Subtle? No. Effective? Absolutely.
