Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons
It might be my 13-year-old, rebellious, testosterone-fueled self speaking, but I feel like only Slayer fans would cling to steel gates in the midst of a severe thunderstorm to save their place at the head of a line. Of course, the staff outside the venue and the announcements via various social media platforms urge us to return to our vehicles and wait for the weather to pass, but this is taken as more of an act of legal liability on the promoter’s part, rather than a serious caution. By the time the gates are supposed to be open, my partner and I are shaking under the cover of the entrance overhang, my sweatshirt and her flannel sopping from the intense downpour, both of us avoiding the rising water. Few people leave, and as the rain continues, alternating between rapid and torpid riffs upon the tin roof above, I wince and survey the band of soggy bodies.
The attendees are about who I imagine—mostly white, bearded males, in their mid-30s and up. The fans—a convoy of black t-shirts—huddle together, and sway so the ground looks more like amorphous asphalt than concrete. This night in Noblesville, Indiana is part of the second year of Slayer’s final tour, with Cannibal Corpse, Amon Amarth, and Lamb of God opening for the thrash-pioneers on this leg. Though, by the time the storm pushes the door time and the show back a few hours, it is announced that only the latter two have time to play shortened sets before Slayer. From under the gateway, one man argues with security; others vape, huffing their cotton candy and cherry scents with annoyed grunts. My partner and I arrived early, even for the original door time; we are closest to the gates, able to see the long line filtering in behind us. I gradually warm up, and do my best to avoid an old propensity to frown or cross my arms like some bouncer at a concert-turned-waterpark, throwing tough looks back at the restless metalheads.
My own attitudes associated with metal—thrash or otherwise—have changed quite considerably since I first got into the genre in junior high. The contrarian, violent, or hyper-masculine behaviors attributed to the music have become much more opaque to me in the last decade or so. “War Ensemble” doesn’t particularly inspire patriotism; most people don’t hold up a Bic and sway gently to “Hammer Smashed Face;” if you are trying to be more self-effacing and considerate as a person, “Cowboys From Hell” might not be the tune for you. I feel like it would be a lie to not readily admit these things, but of course none of these songs are necessarily tasked with providing messages of hope or positivity; optimism and subtlety might be the last attributes to expect out of metal. Now, I think the often aggressive and blistering music provides an outlet for physical energy; I can’t quantify the amount of sweat I have shed to “Reign in Blood,” nor can I log the running cramps accumulated while listening to “Kill ‘Em All.”
Now, I have come to hope that a sense of humor, not without some critical awareness, will allow me to continue to consume a genre with an image and reputation that can be edgy, vain, and questionable. After spending enough time listening to metal and taking interest in the scene, I have, of course, come across bands in the various subgenres of metal touting white supremacy, who would undoubtedly be interested in harming and discriminating against me and other non-Aryan listeners. Besides this, there is a more general trend in the genre for lyrics and imagery to be enamored with gratuitous violence, hypermasculinity, and an obsession with a “metal” image. As an alternative to these, I like to populate my Spotify with black metal environmentalists, female-fronted extreme metal groups, and bands filled with people of color as members, such as California’s death metal/hardcore outfit Xibalba. I do my best to find musicians that have some level of awareness, that is, I try hard to avoid bands that take themselves or their agenda too seriously—or utilize their lyrics to promote hatred. Still, when I think back to middle-school-me, downing Monster Energy drinks, failing miserably at gore galore video games, sporting an unkempt beard, wearing an ill-fitting cutoff shirt, I can’t help but feel a little ludicrous myself.
Slayer plays (here I am tempted to write “rips” or “shreds”) through nearly forty years of material, complete with evolving stage decorations and frantic light displays, loud and seamless enough to maybe carry the weight of all those decades in one single set. A large drunk white man shuffles back and forth in his fishing cap, pacing in front of the crowd like some camouflage bobber in the unsettled water, encouraging everyone to echo the iconic “SLAYER” call. He continues, getting an echo from the crowd about half the time. When it fails, he wags his head with disbelief and swears at the attendees. The amphitheater lawn, brand new at the start of the concert season, is now a mucky caravan of moshers. Trying to ignore the fishing cap man, I bang my head and flail my body, throwing my internal organs on a spin cycle to “Raining Blood.” My partner smiles and does the same. Though I wonder how much she is enjoying the music versus how much she is enjoying the fact that I am enjoying the music, I am thankful that I am not alone here. Tom Araya addresses the horde only once, save for a few thank you’s, to ask, “This next song is about payback. Does anybody know what that is?” but when the raging audience fails to commit to a singular “What is…” response, he tells us: “Well, for those of you who don’t know—payback is a bitch, motherfucker!”
The night of nuance ends as it always does: with the ceremonial get-to-the-fucking-car-and-out-of-the-congested-parking-lot. “Angel of Death” begins and much of the crowd starts speed-walking out of the amphitheater, toward their vehicles, to avoid the outpouring (onslaught?) of fans. Without the flood of the frenetic lightshow, concertgoers become damp specters, rushing into the night. On the way home, our clothes are puddled in the back seat; the cars with their brights on illuminate the moisture on my arms, where I cut the sleeves off my band t-shirt. I quickly flip the heat on; I have not worn my sweatshirt since it became a mushy mass. My neck aches and my ears are still blast-beating away; I strain to even hear myself speak. I dial the heat up as high as it goes. I shiver.
Alberto Sveum is a recent MFA graduate from Indiana University Bloomington, where he also served as the Editor-in-Chief of Indiana Review. He received his B.A. in English and Philosophy from the University of Northern Iowa.