It’s apparent now that Slayer was a couple of good guitarists, a fine bassist, and only a passable drummer. When I was in marching band, I asked Mr. Runty to do an arrangement of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida for us to do in pep band and all the stoners would run back into the gym when we played it because they all were like “Slayer?! Cool.”
But wasn’t this song also on the Less than Zero soundtrack? Man, didn’t we all think this was going to be something and all that came of it was fucking Limp Bizkit. Anyway, Slayer should have borrowed Anthrax’s drummer, that’s for damn sure.
Oh, Anthrax. This song, whenever I hear it, it tastes like Marlboro reds, beer, and C’s neighbor, who I have to believe, when I look back on it, must have tasted like a bottle of Drakkar Noir, but in my memory just tastes like something sad and dangerous. Was his brother hot, too? I can’t remember. Hell, I can’t remember if he was hot, even. Just that he played this song and taught us to smoke and let us take tiny sips off his beer, which he drank openly, without fear of repercussions from his dad.
I guess shit probably didn’t go that easy for him. I know it didn’t for C. I used to think that I could be cold enough and sharp enough that I could be dangerous. But I was young. I was probably just annoying. What I wanted, though, was to be tough in a way I never could pull off in real life, because I had a lot I wanted to be able to turn my back on. I used to think I escaped. I could go on to do anything else with my life than be stuck in that place with people I wished could have what they dreamed instead of what they settled for. But I didn’t, really.
I still carry those folks in my heart, back in the dark corner.