Diamond

Simon Hall

2004

Going to a real metal gig at the Glasgow Barrowlands was always an indescribable thrill for me. The finest and heaviest of bands would come from all over the world, relishing the opportunity to perform for the legendary Barrowlands crowd. A true Glaswegian warmth exuded from that weird and ugly assortment of leather-clad metalheads who packed the seedy, sticky-floored, low-roofed venue. Flat beer spilled from plastic pint beakers. The house lights went down. The support band struck up. The stink of the crowd was awesome and disgusting. Steam rose from the bodies and mingled above them. The guff of a metal crowd. Part of that stink was you, and you were part of it. You were part of that diabolical, magical crowd.

I was eighteen years old - just a boy - when I saw Pantera at the Barrowlands in 1992. They were the biggest thing in metal that year: progressive, aggressive, loud, energetic, melodic, thrilling. Phil Anselmo, the singer, was a sleek skinhead panther who roared in tune but looked like he should be locked up in jail. Even better than Anselmo for me, though, was seeing Diamond Darrel, Panteras lead guitar player. I spotted him before the band took to the stage. I was down at the front of the crowd, the house lights were back on and he was behind the drum riser tuning his guitar. If Anselmo looked like a panther, Darrell was distinctly leonine in his appearance. A great frizzy mane of red hair stood out from his head in all directions, his long red beard jutted out from his chin like rusty wire wool. His physique was impeccably muscular and he sported a guitar with a sharp, angular design. The guitar was newly strung and the silvery string ends sprung out from the headstock. I called his name and he turned to me with a wide grin and gave a hearty wave. Diamond Darrell exuded a natural warmth.

Pantera hit the stage. The Barras went mental. The volume and energy of the performance were immense. The crowd surged like a single living organism, sweating, steaming, jumping, roaring. Performers and audience were one. (They allowed little kids into the licensed Barras for the first time ever that night. I thought it was cute the way they gaped wide-eyed from their perches on their dads shoulders, awestruck at the magnificent and slightly frightening spectacle before them.) Respite from the intense heat, the stifling stench and the violent jostling of the crowd came only when you broke the surface to surf the crowd on the hands of thousands of fellow fans. For a few precious, cool seconds you could see everything, everyone could see you, and Diamond Darrell was on the very lip of the stage, thrashing at those new strings, grinning at you, showering the crowd with machine-gun stacatto chords or a soaring solo break. It was greater than diabolical: it was heavenly, transcendent.

Diamond Darrell was shot dead in Ohio in December 2004. A disgruntled, psychotic fan blamed him for the break-up of Pantera and took things to this insane extreme. I felt an immediate, profound sadness. I guess I hadnt listened to Pantera for years, but the experience of being a part of the crowd and of making that small personal connection to him had stayed with me at a deep level. I dug out my old albums and thought about this vibrant young talent, gunned down in his prime, doing what he loved best. The world of rock went into mourning. Tributes poured in to the metal websites. The mans popularity was astonishing in its scale, but not astonishing to those of us who had some experience of his energy and his charisma. He left the world a duller, stiller, quieter place.