Free Slayer's Reign in Blood (33 1/3) by D.X. Ferris Page A

resented the Metal Blade chief. Slagel’s indie shop adhered to certain time-honored music-business traditions: The label owned a cut of Slayer’s publishing royalties. And though King’s dad and Araya had financed Slayer’s recordings, Metal Blade owned the master tapes. The band agreed with the lawyer. And the attorney gave Metal Blade the axe.
    Slagel kept the back catalog, retained ownership of the masters, and forfeited other future business connections. Slagel declines to provide more specific details, saying simply, “It all got sorted out. It was somewhat unconventional.”
    And Slayer was free to move on. Hip-hop godfather Russell Simmons doesn’t recall signing the thrash band as a big deal. The imminent rap-rock rift between Rubin and Simmons had yet to manifest, and Simmons trusted Rubin’s judgment. Signing Slayer to a stable with L.L. Cool J and Oran “Juice” Jones was a smart business move, not an indulgence to keep his partner happy.
    “I didn’t have to make Rick happy,” says Simmons. “Rick was a genius; whatever he said [went]. The groups he signed made
everybody
happy.”
    And thrash’s hottest free agent was signed to the world’s most def rap label.

Writing
Blood
    Reign in Blood
began in Hanneman’s nightmare. It started becoming a reality in Araya’s Camaro, a bronze warhorse with a broken driver-side door handle. The album starts with real-world horror. Hanneman’s father’s collection of Nazi war souvenirs had piqued his interest early. Lately, he’d been reading up about the Third Reich.
    As 1985 wound down, Hanneman digested a few books about Josef Mengele, the Nazi officer who had overseen medical procedures at Auschwitz, a Polish death camp where the staff had crossed the line from research to deadly curiosity and torture. Hanneman contemplated Mengele, Auschwitz, and the Holocaust in Araya’s car. The singer and guitarist would cruise from Downey to H.B., catching a buzz and shooting the shit.
    “We used to party together all the time, go to parties, hang out,” says Hanneman. “And next thing you know, we’re starting to write a record. That album came together pretty quick, because we were bored, and wanted to get something out.”
    While Hanneman and Araya were partying, King was usually at home, taking care of his snakes and practicing. He wrote in his bedroom at his parents’ house. He worked—as he still prefers to—with no distractions. King jammed with an amp in the corner and a cheap cassette recorder rolling in front of it. The guitarist was coming up with some good stuff. “Piece by Piece” was his first solo composition for the record; the spiraling intro riff came first, and the lyrics followed.
    Unlike Hanneman, King was never much of a reader. He preferred watching horror flicks. Freddy Kruger’s debut in
Nightmare on Elm Street
was a favorite at the time. He alsoliked the rash of big-budget Stephen King adaptations like
Cujo
and
Christine
. The guitarist would watch the movies and let his mind wander.
    Hanneman, fifteen minutes away, had new toys. He’d discovered rap, drawn to the fresh accounts of urban malaise and corrosive new noise. When he realized drum machines could make rock beats, he bought one and used it to flesh out the demos he was recording in his bedroom.
Reign
has clear themes, but Hanneman says it wasn’t designed as an exploration of evil or malevolence; it just came together that way.
    “I know we didn’t talk about it, but that’s something I always wanted to write about: that bad stuff,” says Hanneman. “Don’t write about love, don’t write about happiness, don’t write about partying. Just write about bad stuff; it’s more interesting.”
    The two axemen jammed in Araya’s garage, nicknamed “The Club Horizon.” While one guitarist would work out his latest riff, the other would sit at Dave’s drums, blocking out percussion parts. They quickly chopped up King’s songs and Hanneman’s instrumental