VINNIE PAUL ABBOTT: We have the same story as the Van Halen brothers. I started on drums and Dime started on drums a couple weeks afterwards. I got better than him, so he asked my dad to give him a guitar. I used to walk by his room and see him with his Ace Frehley makeup on standing in front of the mirror holding the guitar. I said, “Are you ever gonna learn to play that thing?” I never thought he would. One day he comes into my room and says, “Are you ready to jam?” He plugs in and starts playing “Smoke on the Water.” We played it for five or six hours, and we were hooked forever.
TERRY GLAZE (Lord Tracy, ex-Pantera): We all went to Bowie High School in Arlington, Texas. In eleventh grade my best friend [bassist] Tommy Bradford and I had a band. We wanted Vince to join because he played in the high school band and was awesome. Vince was like, “Me and my brother are a package deal.” Darrell was in middle school, and we said, “We’ll take your little brother, who’s not that good a guitar player, but you have to take our singer [Donnie Hart], who owns a PA.” So the five of us started a band.
REX BROWN (Pantera): When I first met Darrell he must have been fourteen. Me and Vinnie were in high school and Darrell could barely hit a bar chord [laughs]. But he learned fast. He was a natural.
DIMEBAG DARRELL: When I was thirteen that’s all I gave a fuck about. I skipped school and sat in my room and worked my fuckin’ ass off. That’s all I did for five years. My dad showed me some scales. Musicians in his studio would show me the hot lick of the day, then I’d go home and turn it into my own thing. I’d try to play something, and make a mistake, and hear some other note come into play. Then I’d start moving it around and find the beauty of it.
VINNIE PAUL: Once he learned a little, his desire never stopped. A lot of people start playing to chase chicks or do dope. For us it was always about the music and the musicianship. Before long, here he is fifteen years old, and instead of imagining he could play “Eruption” by Eddie Van Halen, he’s playing it, and playing it good.
DIMEBAG DARRELL: I didn’t get no pussy. I didn’t drink no booze. I didn’t do nothin’ until I was seventeen. I tried a guitar lesson one time and never went back for the second. I figured out I was on my own road.
TERRY GLAZE: Darrell went in his room and woodshedded when he was sixteen, and about six months later, he came out fully evolved. He started doing [guitar store] guitar contests and won the first two. It wasn’t even close. After the second one, he wasn’t allowed to enter anymore. He became a judge as a teenager.
REX BROWN: Vince calls me and goes, “Dude, you gotta come over and check out my brother.” So I go and suddenly, there’s this total virtuoso. He knew all of Randy Rhoads’s licks. He won so many guitars and Marshall stacks in these contests—hands down.
DIMEBAG DARRELL: It would sound egotistical to say I’m a natural guitarist, but I’m gonna have to say it [laughs]. I know for a damn fact, dude. It just came too quick. Three months and it was there. I knew that was my calling.
TERRY GLAZE: Pretty early on, we were called Pantera, and we had a picture of a cat and there was a race car [in the logo]. [The Abbotts’] dad [Jerry] was our manager, and we’d drive out to Abilene and play behind chicken screens like in The Blues Brothers. Their dad got us a Suburban, and we each made $150 a week. We all lived at home and put the money back into gear.
JERRY ABBOTT (Dime’s and Vinnie’s father, manager, producer): I was always a Pantera fan. I would look anybody dead in the eye and say for the first five years of that band I was the fifth member. When they were kids, I helped them restructure their songs: first verse, chorus, instrumental bridge, chorus. They did some things that were off the wall and needed to be honed.
DIMEBAG DARRELL: We started getting tired of doing covers, so we began writing more originals. We did our first record, [Metal Magic], in 1983, and it didn’t sound anything like we ended up being, but we were just kids.
TERRY GLAZE: I played guitar on Metal Magic, but after that, Darrell was getting better at a crazy rate. From then on, he played all the guitars. Going into our senior year, Tommy decided he wanted to be the drum major for the high school band, so he bowed out of Pantera and we got Rex Brown. He went to the high school closest to us. He was a bad boy and he partied. By that time, we’d pushed out Donnie Hart because I wanted to sing my own songs. We were playing skating rinks and parties, and sold our first album off the bandstand.
Throughout its major-label career, Pantera downplayed its self-released glam and commercial metal albums because they contrasted so vividly with the thrash-and-burn sound they pursued through the nineties. The shift was hardly disingenuous—Pantera was always true to the music they loved. They grew up on KISS, Van Halen, ZZ Top, Ozzy Osbourne, and Judas Priest before discovering Metallica, Slayer, and Anthrax. They recorded three credible and diverse mainstream metal albums with Terry Glaze between 1983 and 1985 before Phil Anselmo joined in 1987. Silly as it might seem today, at the time their glam image matched their commercial sound.
JERRY ABBOTT: A guy from Mechanic Records in New York City told me he wanted to sign the band. After we talked a bit, he said, “Do you want me to tell you what’s wrong with this band?” I said, “Fire away.” He said, “They’re too diverse. You get one song that’s speed metal, one song classic metal, and then one that’s almost commercial pop. Get your band to hone what they’re doing. That’s my advice.” That’s exactly what they did later when Phil came into the band.
PHIL ANSELMO (Down, Pantera, Superjoint Ritual): Before I joined Pantera, every band in a bar had to look like Mötley fucking Crüe. I would come home from school and sing Unleashed in the East from Judas Priest front to back. Then I ended up in the bar scene, and out comes the spandex. Here I was, a metal and hardcore fan, and I’m standing up there [in New Orleans band Razor White] looking prettier than a goddamn girl. I’m going, “Fuck, I can’t do this, man.” I was sixteen. I had quit school and left home. For the entire year I was doing between four and six gigs a week, three to five sets a night. That’s how Pantera heard about me.
TERRY GLAZE: Me leaving Pantera after 1985’s [I Am the Night] had nothing to do with music. I loved the music onstage two hours a day. It was the other twenty-two hours that was difficult. I loved playing with those guys. But I wanted [the business to operate] slightly differently than they did. The Abbotts [including Jerry] never split their vote, so if one of them wanted something, that’s what we were doing, and there was no negotiating. I said, “I’m quitting in two weeks unless things change.” Nothing changes. The last show I played with them was in Louisiana. Afterwards, I took my stuff and drove home, and it was really weird, because I’d been with them forever.
JERRY ABBOTT: When the whole band decided to go in a heavier direction, Phil was perfect for that. That, to me, is what brought Pantera from a band that wasn’t quite on the scene yet to a powerhouse.
PHIL ANSELMO: When they lost Terry, they lost a lot of the identity of the band, and Dimebag became the focal point. It was just Dimebag and these fill-in guys. They had four different singers before I even showed up [David Peacock, Matt L’Amour, Rick Mythiasin (Steel Prophet), and Donnie Hart (who returned briefly)]. The first time I ever tried out for Pantera, I flew in from New Orleans to Dallas-Fort Worth [airport], and we jammed all night on Priest and Maiden. Then we went back to Darrell and Vince’s mother’s house, where they were living at that time, and we drank tequila, which I almost puked because I was definitely not a tequila drinker. We smoked some weed and they played me some demos from Power Metal. I wanted to make sure if I joined that we would be going in a heavier direction. And they were like, “Oh, totally.” So they played me these demos, and sure, it is more aggressive than their old stuff, especially the opening track, “Power Metal.” They gave me a tape of the fuckin’ thing, and I wrote lyrics in about half an hour—obviously. I went in there and nailed that motherfucker. And yes, Rob Halford was a huge influence for me on that album. But it was a good start and it was a natural evolution from that to [1990’s]
Cowboys from Hell.
DEREK SHULMAN (president of 2PLUS Music & Entertainment, ex-president/CEO of Atco Records and Roadrunner Records): I was quite aware of Pantera when Vinnie and Darrell had Terry Glaze in the band because I visited Dallas in the mid-1980s from time to time, where my in-laws resided. They had built a following in the area and were regarded as a band to watch. I had listened to their third self-produced album, Power Metal, with their new singer Philip Anselmo, when I was at Polygram, and although I thought it was a well-crafted, heavier album with fantastic playing, it still did not have that unique quality that they would ultimately acquire. It was not, at that time, particularly distinctive from the artists that I was involved with, like Bon Jovi, Cinderella, and Kingdom Come.
REX BROWN: Phil was a scrappy dude—a young kid who had left home to live in the back of his car. His temper was out of control. He’d fight anybody at the drop of a goddamn hat. He made sure that when he walked into a room people would know it, and he had that whole “don’t look at me” attitude he still has to this day, but it was way worse back then.
PHIL ANSELMO: I had just joined Pantera. Now, they hadn’t told Donnie Hart he was out of the band again and I was in. I didn’t know Donnie, and we were out one night at this bar and Dimebag says, “Yo dude, you better watch out.” I was like, “For what?” He goes, “Our old lead singer is here and he’s pissed off.” Then I see this guy, an oddball, from across the bar. Now, I’m not one to turn away from a glare so I glared right back until he took his eyes off me. The night goes on. Next thing I know, he walks into the bathroom while I’m in there. I go, “What the fuck are you looking at?” He charges me and tries to wrap me up around my waist. I beat the ever-living fuck out of him with rapid combinations. Then the bass player [of his new band Boss Tweed] grabs me, and I spin his ass around and KO him with a sweet right hand and somehow the whole place gets pushed out the back door. Then the guitar player charges me and I toss him on his head on the gravel. His other guitar player charges. I punch him square in the chest, took his air out. I kicked the whole fucking band’s ass right in front of everybody, and they’re like, “Whoa man, you can fight.” Donnie came up to me a week later and was like, “You should be a boxer, man.” I was like, “Man, I’ve been boxing for years. Maybe that’s why you shouldn’t have fucked with me to begin with.” But we became friends after that.
VINNIE PAUL: After we finished Power Metal (1988), we took a good look at ourselves and said, “You know what? These fancy clothes and all this crazy hair stuff ain’t playing music for us, we are.” We decided to drop all that and focus even more on the music, and just fucking kick ass as much as possible.
PHIL ANSELMO: We were down in Houston, Texas, in ’88, and I had fucking had it with our look. I told them, “Fuck this. I will quit the band,” and I was dead serious. I was not going to do another show in spandex. We had a huge argument—a knock-down, drag out fucking huge fight that spilled over into Fort Worth. I finally said, “Fuck it. This is my last gig.” I laid down the law, and we had crowds coming, so what were they going to do? It was ugly at first, but it proved that the brotherhood was there. I could jump onstage in the same clothes I wore all day and sing the fucking songs. That bred confidence and a new fire in our bellies. The rules were torn down. Kids are stage diving. There’s skanking. Punks start showing up. Suddenly we’ve got a new audience that wouldn’t have gone to see them before.
By 1988, Pantera was beginning to develop a foothold in the speed metal community, thanks to Anselmo’s rugged delivery and a new series of influences—including Slayer. That band’s 1986 album, Reign in Blood, was rightfully received as the pinnacle of thrash metal, and with their next two releases, 1988’s South of Heaven and 1990’s Seasons in the Abyss, Slayer firmly established themselves as champions of evil, penning songs about Satan, serial killers, and the evils of war, all motivated by their disgust for mainstream society and their general misanthropy.
KERRY KING: The world’s a really stupid, fucked-up place, and it drives me crazy. I swear, man, I’d be the first one out there shooting people if it was legal.
JEFF HANNEMAN: If I didn’t have this outlet, I think I would have snapped by now. I’m more pissed now than I was at twenty-four. The older you get, the more you see what’s going on in the world and how fucked-up things are. There’s nothing you can do about it unless you want to spend the rest of your life in jail, so you just have to find a way to deal with it.
TOM ARAYA: We can apply all this anger to our music and our lyrics. Others just get mad and punch people. We’re able to use our energy constructively. That’s why we can be kind of mellow and normal in our daily lives.
KERRY KING: Some people have said that Slayer’s music doesn’t change and grow. Fuck that. We do it ’cause we like it. I’m a true fan of what we do, and that’s why my music has stayed very similar over the years. You know Slayer when you hear Slayer. It may not be the most technically advanced thing, but there are plenty of places to go if that’s what you want to hear.
JEFF HANNEMAN: I used to be totally into Steve Vai and Joe Satriani and other shredders, and I tried to emulate what they did and really grow as a guitarist. Then I said, “I don’t think I’m that talented, but more important, I don’t care.”
TOM ARAYA: We were doing all this great shit, but we were having problems with our original drummer Dave [Lombardo], so that made things a little bit stressful. It was a repeat problem. The first time was when we did our first semiprofessional tour in 1986 [for Reign in Blood]. Then Dave just quit. We had just got done doing a tour with W.A.S.P., and he fucking bailed on us on the second half of the tour. We finished the rest of the tour with [Whiplash drummer] Tony Scaglione. He did a decent job. Then Dave wants to come back. At that point I had lost trust in him. It took a lot of convincing from [Rick] Rubin and our manager [Rick Sales]. But Dave stayed in the band until the end of [1990’s] Seasons in the Abyss. Then, at the end of Seasons, he bailed again. Actually, we bailed him. He just didn’t have his shit together. [Paul Bostaph joined the band, until Lombardo’s 2006 return.]
DAVE LOMBARDO (Slayer): When I was originally in Slayer, I didn’t feel like I needed to explore other avenues. But once I started being pigeonholed in that metal scene, I was like, “Forget this. I am more than just a metal drummer.” When I heard the first record they did without me, I was a bit upset because on the first drum roll of the first part of Divine Intervention the tempo drops, and you hear it. It’s obvious. It goes from, like, 160 beats-per-minute down to about 140. I was like, “Wow, and they picked on my drumming?”
Ozzy’s legendary guitarist Randy Rhoads was a huge influence on Dimebag Darrell’s playing. Nonetheless, after immersing himself in early Metallica and Slayer, Darrell decided to take a heavier approach to songwriting. With Anselmo as a raging, antiestablishment, hardcore-and-thrash flag-waving front man, Pantera finally had the attitude and direction to go along with their musicianship. They began crafting the songs that would eventually comprise the pivotal thrash-groove album Cowboys from Hell. Whatever they lacked in corporate muscle and money, they made up for in drive, determination, and the confidence to persevere at a time when the market was already glutted with thrash bands and major labels were about to purge their metal holdings.
VINNIE PAUL: In ’83 when Metallica played at Harvey Hall in Tyler, Texas, me and my brother drove to see those guys. They were opening for Raven and there were maybe twenty people there, and we’re all standing up against the stage going crazy. James and Lars ended up coming back to the house and hanging out with us for a couple days. It was such a thrill to be around them. Kill ’Em All had just come out, and it was a whole new thing.
TERRY GLAZE: James and Lars came back and hung out in Arlington a couple times. I think they possibly were interested in Darrell joining Metallica, but he wouldn’t leave his brother. Same thing with Megadeth. He said, “Not without my brother.”
VINNIE PAUL: Megadeth called Dime and asked him to audition. Dave Musta
ine actually offered him the job. They offered him health insurance, a Nike endorsement, lots of money, and an opportunity to play on the big stage. He came back and said, “Look man, this ain’t gonna happen. The only way it could happen is if they wanted to hire you and they already got a drummer. So let’s fuckin’ knuckle down.” That really caused everyone to focus and get on it.
DAVE MUSTAINE: I had just asked Nick Menza to join Megadeth when I called Darrell and asked him if he wanted to play with us. Darrell goes, “Well, yeah, man. Love to come play with you, but I gotta bring my brother.” I went, “Uh, okay. What’s your brother do?” I didn’t know who Vince was and I thought he was Dime’s guitar tech. He goes, “No, he’s my drummer.” I went, “Oh shit man, I just hired Nick Menza.” He said, “Well then I can’t come.” I went, “Ah fuck. Okay, well nice talking to you.” Later I was thinking, “Man, if I would have just hired both of them I would have had the greatest band in the world.”
VINNIE PAUL: We always felt like our musicianship enabled us to be more than just a thrash band. The groove thing was something we didn’t want to lose, even though we got heavier. We wanted people to be able to move to the music. Being from Texas, we were always fans of ZZ Top and bands that had big grooves.
DIMEBAG DARRELL: I fit the kind of music I play. I’m rowdy, I like to tear into shit and drink shit and have a good ol’ time. I can’t imagine playing something laid back that didn’t fit who I am. I’m lucky I found myself. A lot of people don’t until the day they die. As for our Southern thing, everybody in Texas is laid back. There are places like New York where everybody’s in a rush to hurry up and get things done. That’s not good for your health—not that booze is either [laughs]. That more relaxed thing goes into the music. You can hear the bends, you can hear the Southern rock parts.
Louder Than Hell: The Definitive Oral History of Metal Page 31
