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. ... (continues)