Why I Spent Last Thursday Trying to get Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

May 12

When I started playing guitar at the age of fourteen, it was a solitary affair when it came to learning the ropes. Lessons did not interest me, nor did even trying to simulate the styles of established players of the instrument; it was a purely DIY venture undertaken by a hermitic teenager with no social aspirations. I suppose my lack of any real ‘guitar heroes’ came from the fact that I was not initially drawn to lead guitar playing styles, which is the generally the pursuit that engenders the more iconic and ultimately recognizable figures for the instrument. It was all about the riff for me, making me a rhythm player through and through; to me it was the riff that builds the song, the driving force of the music, and, most importantly to a youth succumbed to the lure of the devil’s music, it is the riff that bangs your head. As a budding metal head, that mysterious property of the music that possesses the listener with such subliminal force as to induce a nearly involuntary motor function was both fascinating and seductive in its power.

This lead to an attraction to players not generally known flashy playing, intricate techniques, or the hallowed title of ‘guitar god’. Max Cavalera, Eric Peterson, and especially Jerry Cantrell who, till this day retains a style of riffing that is more dynamically heavy than most modern metal guitarists without even necessarily participating in the genre itself. Of course, much the same as any other horn raiser, it was only a matter of time before the force of nature know as Slayer captured not only my attention, but a little piece of my soul. For a band known for so many facets: frenzied solos, heretical themes, and a ferocity of music known only to themselves, it was the riffs of Jeff Hanneman that garnered my obsessive study. They were just so fucking killer. What drew me into the music more than anything else was the unrestrained power behind it, that subconscious force that carries with it the sense of fervent intensity and energy. It was the magic of heavy metal, the thing that triggers the ancient and vestigially primal segment of the brain which induces involuntary head banging, delivered in its most pure, unrefined form. I had to have it, in all ways; to hear it and to play it.

So I got out my guitar and started to play, with the help of a devoted community of musicians who put the time and energy into tabbing out the band’s music. I was always interested in dabbling with different musical styles, but actual technique was something I could hardly be bothered with, I had my way and I stuck with it for the natural comfort of it. When I saw Jeff Hanneman play though, I could not help but at least try to simulate his method. It was like watching an inebriated caveman pummel a war song out of a guitar, he held his pick firmly in a solid fist and proceeded to beat the hell out of the instrument with a manic aggression that left no room for finesse or elegance. It made sense too, the music was both ferocious and violent and seeing the man assault the strings with that barbaric determination was like witnessing a chef add the special ingredient that makes a dish what it is. So I tried it, with little results beyond a sore wrist and a frustration at learning songs that would have been easier had I attempted them with a style that was more natural to me.

It is no secret that Jeff himself paid a price for his own style. He would often express a reluctance towards the faster breakneck riffs that partner axeman Kerry King would bring to writing sessions. Indeed, Rob Flynn of fellow bay area thrashers Machine Head recently reminisced of a backstage conversation he had with Jeff years ago in which the Slayer guitarist confided that he would sometimes sit out newer songs during live shows because his wrist would go numb. Watching him play, it made sense. You could literally watch the strain in his arm as the tendons popped to the surface, his shoulder pitched forward to leverage force on a picking hand that should never be there on a healthy guitarist. But it got the job done, Jeff was about the music and I doubt he could ever be bothered with the finer points of proper technique; it is what the Slayer fanbase knows all too well as the ‘undisputed attitude’. Heineken, a wall of Marshalls, and that unrelenting, no-holds-barred attitude took precedence, carpal tunnel syndrome be damned.

Which is why I spent last Thursday trying to destroy my wrist. When I heard the news that Jeff had passed, I could not honestly think of anything more appropriate to do than pick up my guitar, grasp a pick like a ham-fisted barbarian and play “Seasons in the Abyss” until my wrist shook. I could drink until I blacked out, or I could scream SLAAAAAAYER!!!! at the top of my lungs like a maniac in tribute to the man and his legacy, and those would have been perfectly befitting, but that is not how I came to know Jeff in my own personal way. No, I needed to give myself a numb picking hand and a sore neck, for old time’s sake.

Rest in peace Jeff, this arthritis is for you.