Slayer's Reign in Blood (33 1/3) (6 page)

“He was really coming into his own,” says King, reflecting on the
Reign
period. “I think that was probably Jeff’s heyday.”

Drummer Dave Lombardo’s past and future were always as important to him as his present in Slayer—to an outside perspective, maybe more so. Lombardo is the only member of the original to lineup to leave the band. And the drummer was the source of the camp’s only major internal conflict during the
Reign in Blood
period (and after). Though he’s since rejoined. Twice.

Lombardo met his wife, Teresa, at one of Slayer’s first gigs. She came along for Lombardo’s ride from obscurity to renown—much to the rest of the band’s chagrin. With
Reign in Blood
, Slayer was finally big enough to rent a tour bus. Lombardo, freshly married, decided to bring his wife along, despite a band policy prohibiting non-personnel. Escalating tension ensued, and Lombardo quit after the first leg of the U.S. tour, only to return three months later. Slayer are all from nuclear families. Lombardo’s family instincts run on nuclear power.

Lombardo was born in Havana, Cuba, in 1965. He came to American in 1967, with his parents, two older brothers, and an older sister. The Lombardos left behind Cuba, but not its
culture. Percolating Latin rhythms are still important to one of extreme music’s top drummers, a pioneer of the chest-pounding double-bass-drum roll.

“Cuban music is a big part of my everyday life,” says Lombardo. “I listen to it habitually, religiously, all the time. I play it for my kids. I tell them, ‘I play drums because this is in my blood.’ I try to teach them as much as I can about where their dad is from culturally, and what songs inspire him. Even if it’s not Cuban music. Say it’s industrial music. Say it’s a Ministry record. I’ll tell them why it’s good.”

Even at Slayer’s peak, family was Lombardo’s top priority. In 1992, the birth of his first child would precipitate his second departure from the band. Over that decade-long hiatus, the Lombardos would have two more children. Sitting in the back of a tour bus, with dark mid-length hair and black wire-rim glasses, he talks like a mild suburban dad who can firmly dress you down without shouting.

In L.A., his brothers would fill the house with music by Ike & Tina Turner, War, and Mitch Ryder. Dave’s brother Danny drummed, and he gave Lombardo the bug. When Dave was a kid, Danny would set up a series of boxes in the living room, in front of their parents’ stereo, a huge piece of furniture the size of a dresser. Then he’d spin a record like the Rolling Stones’
Flowers
, put pencils in Dave’s hands, point him at the improvised percussion set, and tell him, “Play.”
⁷

L.A. had enough Cuban culture that his father never had to learn more than a few words of English. The Lombardos would take the kids to family-friendly parties. At social clubs like Holguinro, big bands with horn sections would make the L.A. parties like Havana nights, a frenzy of rumba and salsa. Much to his mother’s concern, Dave didn’t dance. For
Lombardo, the action wasn’t on the dancefloor. He’d disappear backstage, find an empty stool, and take notes on the drummers.

Some rock crept into Cuban clubs like La Cofradia, where Lombardo once saw a band with a magnetic bassist he’d later recognize as Tom Araya. When groups would roll in a boulder like Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “Takin’ Care of Business,” the dancefloor action would stop, but Lombardo’s blood would rise. In 1979, in ninth grade, he apprenticed as an assistant disco DJ, but he was torn between volume and rhythm. Volume started winning.

“There was this tug of war inside of me,” says Lombardo. “One side of me was listening to Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, and Cream. But culturally, my parents and the people my parents were hanging out with were into disco and style and the hair and the clothes. Maybe it was my rebellion. But whatever it was, Cuban music and disco was on the backburner.”

In his early teens, Lombardo continued his low-tech musical education. He learned to play on his bed, bashing out Zeppelin songs on pillows and books. By the time he had a Tama kit, he’d developed his own ideas about how to attack a set. Lombardo would replace a drum beat’s high-hat/bass drum pattern, hitting the bass drum instead of the high hat, instantly making songs like Iron Maiden’s “Genghis Khan” twice as heavy. Working the bass drum, he was instinctively gravitating toward one of metal’s biggest musical innovations: double-bass kicks as a major indoor sport.

“There were some drummers that were playing double bass, but weren’t interpreting it the way I wanted to play double bass,” recalls Lombardo. “And at the time, I heard Philthy from Mötörhead do the song ‘Overkill,’ and I think
that was a big crossover point for me on what
heavy
was, and what made things heavy. It was another element I was able to use to enhance my drum playing.”

As a teen in South Gate High School, he developed a rep as one of the guys in the neighborhood that could really play. Delivering pizzas, he’d find himself at the Araya house. One day, he saw Kerry King in the yard, pulled over, and asked if he was the kid he’d heard about who had all the guitars—and if he wanted to start a band. King said he did.

“I’ve got guys,” King said. “I think we could be pretty cool.”

You don’t become a leading thrash drummer by being calm all the time. The same hyperdrive that made Lombardo an asset behind the kit could make him a liability on the tour bus.

“He’s a caffeine head,” says King. “He’s always ampin’. He can’t sit still. We call him A.D.Dave.”

After leaving Slayer, Lombardo would be the only original member of the group to record more than a song or a solo outside the band. He collaborated on a Vivaldi adaptation with Italian classical musician Lorenzo Arruga. He jammed with DJ Spooky. And played heavy arty noise with Fantômas—an all-star group featuring former Faith No More front-man Mike Patton and Melvins mainman Buzz Osborne. Osborne also found that the family man sometimes required kid gloves.

“Mild wouldn’t be the first thing that came to mind about Dave,” says Osborne. “I’d say he’s the exact opposite of mild. He’s a high-stress-for-no-reason-at-all guy, and I can’t figure it.”

The mixed distinction of being known as one of the world’s greatest thrash drummers may be part of the stress. Over the years, Lombardo has voiced frustration with the
limitations of Slayer’s sound.

“[Slayer] would have had the same longevity, and our popularity wouldn’t have gone down that drastically because of a commercial song,” Lombardo told David Konow for
Bang Your Head
, a history of metal. “If it was cleverly done with Rick Rubin at the helm, we could have written a song that was heavy but would have taken us to the next level.”
⁸

King remembers the drummer keeping his thoughts to himself.

“Jeff and I have this totalitarian my-way-or-the-highway thing,” says King. “If he’d said that, we probably would have been at the bar, laughing at him.”

Lombardo is the most acclaimed musician in the band—yet least involved in the songwriting process. The double-bass break at the climax of
Reign in Blood
’s first song, “Angel of Death,” would forever establish him as kit-thrashing metal machine.

“I don’t think Dave was happy being
the drummer
,” says former Def Jam staffer Georges Sulmers, agreeing with Osborne’s assessment. “You look back and think, ‘You caused a lot of drama for nothing. You ended up in the band you didn’t want to be in.’”

Lombardo doesn’t think he’s necessarily Slayer’s best musician, but he’ll concede he might be the best-known.

“One day, [my son] Jeremy came up to me, innocent as he is, ‘Dad, are you really one of the greatest drummers in the world?’” says Lombardo. “I go, ‘No. There’s other drummers that are better, but people think this of me.’ My drumming alone didn’t place me in the position where I am now. A record like
Reign in Blood
did something for my career.”

Onstage, bathed in green and red light, Tom Araya is a demonic master of ceremonies, a heavy metal horror host like the Cryptkeeper, the Ghoul, or Chilly Billy. Offstage, he’s Slayer’s biggest anomaly. He’s its oldest member. And its most openly religious. Former Megadeth bassist Dave Ellefson calls the singer-bassist “the Geddy Lee of thrash,” but he’s the band’s least-metal music fan. On a tour bus outside Detroit, he pulls back his black mane, exposing a gold hoop in the top of his right ear, calmly nodding. Talking to him feels like you’re hanging with a jazz guitarist. He’s the only member of Slayer who had an alternate career plan.

Like Lombardo, Araya wasn’t born in America. In 1961, he was born in Chile, christened Tomás Enrique Araya. His dad moved to Los Angeles when Araya was five, where he worked, saved money, filled out paperwork, and brought the rest of the family north when he could.

The Catholic Arayas had seven children, and Tom was the middle kid. They brought a small dose of culture with them: some music, a few traditions, mostly food. After band practice, Mrs. Araya would feed the band and visitors empanas. Unlike Lombardo, Araya was more influenced by the music of California than songs from his homeland.

“Growing up, I listened to 60s radio,” says Araya. “Back then, radio played everything. So all the music that was written influenced me, [what I heard] between the age of ten and eleven, with the riots, what they were written about, how they were written. That’s why I write a lot having to do with a person or something that’s real, as opposed to something that’s made up.”

The singer joined Slayer at twenty-two, and it was his first real exposure to metal. When
Reign in Blood
was released, he was listening to
Springsteen’s Born in the USA
and the Beastie Boys’
Licensed to Ill
. More recently, he horrified hard-bit legions of Slayer fans by revealing he likes emo band Taking Back Sunday. As most classic-rock fans do, he never put his musical past behind, and he still prefers Creedence and the Doors. Anthrax’s Charlie Benante recalls regular scenes from 1991’s Clash of the Titans tour.

“It was always funny,” says Benante. “After the show, I would hang with Tom, and we would talk about the Beatles, or we would jam on a Beatles song on the acoustic or piano, and just talk about how great the Beatles were.”

One older brother played guitar. Tom picked up bass and started to sing a little, without taking lessons for either. At fifteen, he joined a top 40 cover group called Tradewinds. The band played hits like “Night Fever” at parties and clubs like La Cofradia, where Lombardo saw him play. As the 70s drew to a close, the group started cutting Andy Gibb numbers in favor of more Van Halen. Araya didn’t mind playing the feel-good tunes.

“Everybody has their reasons,” says Araya. “For me, it was just to be in a band and play. This is where you start, you know?”

When Araya graduated from Bell High, his dad told him to go to school or get a job. Tom’s sister said respiratory therapy was a good foot in the door for the medical field. He signed up for a two-year diploma program.

After a series of lineup changes, Tradewinds changed its name to the slightly tougher Quits—as in “call it Quits.” The Quit-ers would practice in Tom’s garage, where they
welcomed a new guitarist, Russell Dismuke. Dismuke taught six-string lessons on the side. Eventually, he brought along a young student named Kerry King. That time around, the two wouldn’t be bandmates for long.

“A few months after that, I was politely asked to leave the group,” recalls Araya, chuckling. “So I politely asked them to leave my garage.”

Araya was working as a respiratory therapist, and itching to get back into music when King called and offered him an audition for his new band. Araya figured it was worth a try.

King gave him a list of thirteen songs to learn. Over the next few days, Araya learned “Rock the Nation” by Montrose, “Highway Star” by Deep Purple, and U.F.O.’s “Lights Out.” One night, the other three showed up, set up, and plugged in.

“We played the songs like we had been rehearsing them,” says Araya. “It blew my mind. I turned around and said, ‘I’m in.’ That was it for me.”

Slayer played its first show Halloween, 1981.
⁹
The band started playing high school lunch shows. Then parties. Then alleyways behind industrial units at night. Then clubs, leading a scene full of bands like Vermin, Tormentor, and Abattoir. Araya was the only member with capital-J job. After shows, sometimes he’d work a shift after just an hour’s sleep.

Later in life, his Roman Catholic parents would become ordained ministers in the charismatic movement. Araya’s faith didn’t stop his interest in serial killers. In early interviews, he bristled when interviewers grilled him about the band’s Satanic content. Then, he was torn between his faith and the band’s image. Now he’s more ready to admit that Slayer doesn’t necessarily reflect his worldview.

“Over the years, it’s become more of an art,” Araya says
of delivering King and Hanneman’s anti-Christian lyrics. “I guess when you perform, I have to take the songs and make them something, and make people believe that what I’m saying, I actually believe.”

Araya wouldn’t get a songwriting credit until Slayer’s fourth full-length, 1988’s
South of Heaven
. He wrote the lyrics to 2006’s Grammy-winning “Eyes of the Insane,” one of Slayer’s many songs about soldiers. But on
Reign
, he was no mere mouthpiece. Drummer Dave Lombardo says from where he sits, Araya reminds him of another California band’s singer, who also had a thing for leather pants.

“I think he’s unique,” says Lombardo. “I think a singer definitely has to have some kind of character to carry the band forward. Tom definitely has that. Believe it or not, I see Jim Morrison, from back there where I play. There’s kind of this vibe to him, the whole Morrison thing, the aura and the way he carries himself.”

Kerry King’s life in music is both a success story and an old-time career trajectory: after Slayer, if he chooses to, the guitarist will retire from the job he started in high school. Going into his freshman year at South Gate High, the guitarist would have been a good candidate for Least Likely to Became a Headbanger Icon. King was a quiet kid who liked it loud.