Diamonds & Rust: Slayer – Hell Awaits (The Friday The 13th Edition)

[Artwork by Albert Cueller / Mœbius & Philippe Druillet]

Don those hardhats and prep that protective eyeroll gear: Here comes your bagillionth reminder about how triumphant it was to be a kid growing up in the ‘80s.

Yes, of course whichever era happened to be blessed with your childhood was equally great, but the ‘80s were indeed extra special for umpteen reasons, one of which happens to be rooted in the seemingly less awesome truth that we had to work a little harder to escape the banality and bitterness of everyday life. Sounds awesome, right? Having to work harder for escapism? Back then our exceptionally immobile phones were just… well, phones; people read books for entertainment; video games had shitty graphics, but we still got lost in them; and many of our most rewarding fantasy landscapes were painted by dungeon masters using little more than words. Our imaginations were nudged from numerous avenues, for certain, but our brains often did much of the lifting when it came to creation, expansion and overall potency.

Does that mean we used our brains more? No, of course not. But a case could feasibly be made that simpler times, coupled with far less convenient technology and longer attention spans, allowed for a different and perhaps deeper appreciation for the escapes we elected. (Take it easy, Johnny Hotnuts, I said PERHAPS.) Sure, it’s great to live in the modern age and be able to whip out a phone on the bus at 10am and watch Regan MacNeil’s head do a 360, but, admit it, it diminishes the power and makes it feel… less real. If you were like me, you accidentally watched The Exorcist as a wee bairn because it was close to Halloween, HBO had one of those magical “free weekends,” and your parents assumed you were back in the den watching a Little House on the Prairie Halloween special… Which, for what it’s worth, also somehow managed to be scary. Pardon?

Now, before I get thrown into the clink for “excessive yelling at clouds by an irascible oldster,” a charge I am normally pretty careful to avoid, or for straying too far from the point too early, just know that there is a point to this wandering preamble, and said point categorically adds to the appreciation and interminable potency of this, Slayer’s greatest record, and a release that could very well be considered the top thrash album of all time. More on that in a bit, as I know loads of alarms are now pealing and strobing atop crucial releases such as Ride the Lightning, Pleasure to Kill, Bonded By Blood, and—duh—the equally remarkable Reign in Blood. First, though, please consider the following:

I was very intentionally susceptible to fantasy realms and the irresistible allure of life’s more shadowy corners as a youth growing up in the ‘80s, just as I’m certain was the case for a number of you. I had a perfectly rational understanding of the difference between fantasy and reality, of course, but the former was particularly crucial because of its influence on my everyday life and mental development, and the latter was… Well, seemingly less vital because it involved garbage like homework, interminable Sunday sermons, Ronald Reagan, 60 Minutes and shoveling the GD driveway. Escapes that involved Forgotten Realms, Balrogs, Thulsa Doom, Jack Torrance and Xenomorph XX121, though? They all felt quite real to me, and the discovery and devout consumption of such things as a kid back then often took a fair bit of calculated planning and stealthy parental circumvention. Delicious.

Consequently, my initial trips into the occult realms as I was getting to know metal on a deeper level alongside bands like Venom, Bathory, Mercyful Fate, Celtic Frost and Slayer penetrated my bones with a perceived sense of danger—a danger not only associated with allowing myself to fully bliss out and become connected to bands that so willingly aligned themselves with blatant devilry, but also with the concern that my folks would catch wind and attempt to put a sudden end to my emergent heavy metal journey. I have spoken of this before, but releases such as Welcome to Hell (1981), Bathory (1984), Don’t Break the Oath (1984), and To Mega Therion (1985) all tempted me with wonderfully cruel magic during early visits to my local record store, but it took some time to finally take the plunge because on some level I believed committing to that next step would rouse a fresh set of eyes somewhere in the dark unknown that would suddenly find interest in my development. Youthful naivety and religious anxiety of course played a role there, but so did the dearth of (convenient) information and a general absence fellowship to help reduce the general uneasiness. So, yeah, Slayer might as well have been Devil worshippers, whatever deadly oath King Diamond was howling about felt extraordinarily genuine, and the handful of rags available to us were all too willing to double down on that danger element. What a magnificent time to be an intrepid explorer! Sure, it was just music, but with that also came an incredibly enticing escapist culture sheathed in dark and unexplored mystery, and for many of us, that initial infringement was done completely alone and away from prying eyes.

For its part, Hell Awaits became the first Slayer album I actually owned. Show No Mercy tempted me time and again sooner, but being the son of attentive parents who were damnably and warmly involved in my affairs AND music obsessives themselves, I figured I’d have a better chance of dragging the corpse of Saint Peter himself back into the car than something that charged out of the gate with “Evil Has No Boundaries” and “The Antichrist.” As luck would have it, though, my best friend up the street tested those very same waters with Hell Awaits and failed, resulting in a windfall mortal inheritance of said LP as some sort of supernatural jewel that I quickly stashed away in the back of my closet. And thus began my official passage into the truly evil realms of heavy metal.

The first thing to fully possess me was of course the album cover. Artist Albert Cueller’s initial plan was to simply roast the inimitable Slayer logo in nothing but Hell’s flames, but he quickly became “inspired” by the illustrations provided by Philippe Druillet and the unrivaled Jean “Mœbius” Giraud for a story called Approaching Centauri in a 1977 issue of Heavy Metal magazine. Cueller claimed to have not traced the original work he stumbled across, evidenced by the shortening of horns and a number other revised details, including devil tails and the addition of the iconic Slayer sword, but it’s clear this was an early example of “appropriation” by a young artist who likely thought, “Nobody’s gonna know / (They’re gonna know) / How would they know?”

Well, I sure as hell didn’t know. For me, the cover to Hell Awaits marked an accurate depiction of what every religious radical wanted us to believe would be our fate for allowing such deviltry to run free. Midair disembowelment and loads of cruel torment by homicidal fiends as we plummet into the underworld? Well, it was just an album cover, and honestly not that different than the visuals presented by a number of horror comics. Cueller reportedly hoped the gruesome nature of the bloodthirsty demons would inspire Metal Blade to opt for the less blatant concept of his original idea, if for nothing else than to avoid sending up a beacon to all the budding religious watchdog groups such as the fricken PMRC. Slayer and Metal Blade cared little about the pitchforks and torches of motherly mobs, though, so off to print went the devilish feat.

There are certain albums we experience throughout our lifetimes where circumstances allow us to recall that first dip in. I’m confident my first encounter with Hell Awaits occurred through an ancient set of oversized headphones, and despite the fact that I believed I was fully prepared for the album’s opening title track, that extraordinarily grim introduction did everything in its power to make me wonder if I’d perhaps miscalculated my chances for survival. “Hell Awaits” crawls from the dark like a half-rotted ghoul still greedy for blood. Araya’s bass bubbles like thick molten lava brewing in a deep crater, and the guitars crackle with diabolical energy. At the time, I had no clue the repeated backwards message was intended as some sort of dismal invite to break bread. It honestly sounded more like demons snarling “say God, say God, say God” in absolute mockery. And that booming “WELCOME BACK” that quickly followed might as well have been spewed by the Devil himself as he pinned me to my bed’s headboard with a viciously barbed branding iron.

“Hell Awaits” takes forrrrrrrever to hit its full stride, but at no point during that stretched intro to Hell’s infernal flames does it ever feel anything other than necessary. The leveling up from Show No Mercy two years prior is immediately apparent, with a most prominent leap to the next level displayed by drummer Dave Lombardo, who hits the skins here as if his very soul depends on it. The putrid riff about 2:15 in is one of metal’s most poisonous, and by 2:45 the song finally starts an upswing into a more thrashy tempo. Tom’s bass is pulpous and boggy, and by the halfway point “Hell Awaits” is at long last sprinting like the demon it was meant to be. Tom barks: “Angels fighting aimlessly / still die by the sword / our legions killing all in sight / to get the one called Lord!” FATALLY grim tidings for a kid still too young to know better, and the unholy roar of “HELL AWAAAITSSS” only adds to the overall frightfulness of this fiery opening volley.

Where “Hell Awaits” does precisely what’s necessary to gradually envelope the listener in an atmosphere of relentless damnation, the ensuing “Kill Again” strikes with a notably blunt and terrific force. The song rumbles from the gate with all the grace of an undead cave troll, then a series of quick, extremely potent Lombardo fills sends everything charging. This is a straightforward face-ripper that proves the band has sharpened its wares, and its strongest attribute arrives shortly after the halfway point, where Hanneman and King fire back and forth through a series of absolutely savage solos that spray the air like demonic MG42s. “YYYYAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!” howls Araya, just before tearing into some of the ghastliest lyrics on the record: “Kill the preacher’s only son / watch the infant die / bodily dismemberment / drink the purest blood!”

Side A closes out with what must be considered a total Hall of Fame Slayer belter. Right from the jump, “At Dawn They Sleep” fires off one of the most deliciously vile Slayer riffs to date, setting up a grimier, damn-near death-doom strut that seeps corruption like a mouldering grave worm. King and Hanneman were reportedly listening to quite a bit of Mercyful Fate prior to writing and recording Hell Awaits, and a song like this clearly demonstrates the band’s fresh appreciation for a more progressive approach to songwriting that emphasizes loads of ghastly lead guitar battling and myriad tempo shifts to explore all avenues of eeeevil atmosphere. The slow, drubbing strut at the halfway point is heavier than a pit fiend perched on a willow branch, and the only thing more gratifying than the hideous riff that eventually sends the cut charging into an all-out blitz right around 4:40 is the absolutely MENTAL drum freakout Lombardo suddenly frees amidst the song’s closing seconds.

Side B kicks off with “Praise of Death,” which barrels straight into the listener’s face like a derailed train hurtling through a stained-glass window of a cathedral. Pure and simple, this song is 100% fucking unkind, all the way down to its tainted marrow. “RUNNING AND HUNTING AND SLASHING AND SEARCHING AND SEEING AND STABBING AND SHOOTING AND THRASHING AND SMASHING AND BURNING… DESTROYING AND KILLING AND BLEEDING AND PLEADING THEN DEATH,” raves Araya like some sort of deranged executioner, just before belting out a bass run that could just as easily explode off an Agnostic Front record circa 1984. “Praise of Death” also offers up approximately 666 frantic leads that are so fried, animated and unstable, playing the song anywhere near a graveyard is sure to animate every buried stiff within earshot.

Awwww, how nice! These kindly sentimentalists even remembered to throw a love song into the mix! Sure, it’s about boinking the dead, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Well, maybe it’s best not think of such things, as this is a family show. Just know that “Necrophiliac” is about as dark as thrash can possibly get, particularly inside its closing minute where the pace slows to a more rotted galumph and Araya laments over having Lucifer drag his soul “to the fiery pits of… hhhhhHHHHHELLLL.” This ripper also happens to fold in some of the most brutal drumming on the record. That Lombardo freakout around 30 seconds in, and again just before the 1-minute mark? Sure-as-shit prepped and ready to pepper any and all nethers.

“Crypts of Eternity” follows. It’s the longest and most adventurous cut of the record, and it peals from the highlands as the barbarian horde ultimately bolts down the steep incline with the intent of consecrating the earth with the gore of their hapless enemies. Furious power is the overriding force here, as the song veers wildly between fits of hurtling speed and stretches of surprisingly progressive riffs ’n’ rhythm—like an ideal collision between the dark wickedness of Fate’s “Satan’s Fall” and the blasphemous power of Venom’s At War with Satan. Is… Is that Hanneman lead just before the 4-minute mark almost pretty?? It IS, adventurer! But the King lead that soon follows hauls the song back into perdition, just before a series of wickedly precise Lombardo fills vaults Araya’s maniacal howls to a point where your ears and eyes explode from all the intense pressure. “Cringe! With! Fear! Violate-the-unbroken-seal! Of! Hell! Death-will-come-searching-for-your! Mere! Soul! Still-you-are-eager-to-seal! Your! Fate! ALL THAT LIES HERE ARE REMAAAAAAIIIINS!!”

And what better way to conclude this wonderfully fiendish quest than with the throttling violence of “Hardening of the Arteries,” a blunt termination whose brutality is so next level that it almost sounds as if it traveled back in time from Altars of Madness to portend the thorough intensity of eeeeevil death metal to come. The first 2 minutes of this absolute smoker throws down a masterclass in ghastly, pitiless intensity, and the way the song eventually shifts back to the doomy thundering delivered waaaay back in the opening moments of “Hell Awaits” is a chef’s kiss from the deepest, darkest abyss. Quite simply one of the most ruthless conclusions to a metal album ever.

Now, as far as that moderately cheeky statement that dropped approximately 7 feet above is concerned—the one regarding Hell Awaits’ place in the overall thrash pantheon AND inside Slayer’s own archive… Well, that is something that clearly involves everyone’s very favorite buttinski, subjectivity. Slayer is indeed a band where any one listener’s first album experience often equates to their favorite, but those first four full-lengths depict an entity barreling at peak creativity, boldness and enthusiasm, so they are accurately the most revered. And if we’re being truly honest with ourselves and our fellow thrash fiends, the sheer brute force behind Reign in Blood is indeed where Slayer made their sharpest impact on the largest segment of the population, so it stands to reason it should wear the ultimate crown. (There, I said it.)

Hell Awaits, however, represents the precise moment where we witnessed four absolute maniacs reinvent steel, holding fast to their raw as dog balls beginnings, but flailing forward and bending their greatest influences to their own will for the purpose of forging something fresh, radical and utterly fearsome. Venom still paints the corners, but the beast has chainsaws for hands, and it desperately craves a deep snuggle with your entrails. The overall atmosphere is as seductive and evil as Melissa and Don’t Break the Oath, but the crude execution from all the back-and-forth King and Hanneman lead-play sounds more like Denner and Shermann in the midst of being electrocuted. (Make no mistake: That is a compliment.)

In essence, Hell Awaits is one of the most satisfyingly brash examples of early grim magick, and the casting of its spell damn near 40 years ago resulted in the most sinister thrash record ever recorded—a high mark that’s likely to never be equaled again. Sure, the band wasn’t actually serious about all that Hellishness. And, yes, Araya is a practicing Roman Catholic today, which duly twists knickers on both sides of the fence. But there’s still something terrifically inimitable about the full Hell Awaits encounter for so many of us who were lucky enough to have experienced it back in the ‘80s. Yes, that was augmented to the Nth degree via a combination of wide-eyed adolescence and the fact that the record was born into a golden era that still allowed dark mystery to run amok and unscathed, but it’s also something a little less… definable. Perhaps a touch of bygone necromancy conjured from the oily depths that possessed Slayer and listeners alike?

For me personally, whatever apprehension I had going into Hell Awaits was ultimately altered into a unique form of MORBID POWER that left me feeling much more confident and perhaps even a bit menacing in the face of life’s endless intimidations, struggles and outright defeats. Hellish armor for hellish times to come, in a sense, and a pool I still draw from today, even after innumerable return visits. It’s all an indication of true eminence, for certain, and it all but guarantees Hell Awaits its permanent spot at the very top of a particularly crowded heap of worthy rivals.

Darkness covers the world
My kingdom… My domain