What’s a great way for a has-been band to revive its career?
Put sacrilegious artwork on the album and piss off families of victims from the tragedy that happened in New York City in 2001. Yes, classy lounge-act SLAYER has a new album.
In a last attempt to hump as much cash out of their meth-addicted fan base, a dying breed of mulleted southern gentlemen that wear t-shirts with missing sleeves and smiles with missing teeth, Slayer has hacked a few dancin’ ditties together and wants to meet everyone at the back of the barn for a little down-home country sucking. The suckitude of Slayer is appalling.