Lead singer Jesse Herringer of the Pantera heavy metal tribute band, Primal Concrete Cowboys, performs on stage for fans during Heavy Metal Tribute Night at The Rail Club in Fort Worth, Saturday, July 25, 2015. (Tom Fox/Staff Photographer)

Still Cowboys From Hell It’s been a dozen years since Pantera broke up, almost 11 since the macabre murder of guitarist “Dimebag” Darrell Abbott. Among a circle of ardent devotees, the passage of time has yet to dim fond memories of the Arlington metal band, its music or “Dime.” It was the summer of 1983. Warren Garza, a stringy 16-year-old, stepped through the door of the Southern Palace theater at Six Flags Over Texas. Bandanas and chain wallets were in vogue. A sea of black-shirted, perm-headed teens crowded around the stage, upon which stood four kids whose instruments appeared too big for their bodies. The band was called Pantera, and the kids were, at best, a rising local act. When the opening riff of Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ ’Bout Love” bellowed from the guitar of Darrell Abbott, one of the Spandex-clad, curly-haired youths onstage, Garza closed his eyes. The cover sounded just like the original. Whoever those kids are, he thought, “they’re gonna do something good.” A few years later, 17-year-old Jason Hannon walked into Joe’s Garage, a little buzzed from drinking beer with his friends in the parking lot of the Fort Worth bar. At once, he felt the pounding of Vinnie Paul Abbott’s drum kit in his chest. He heard the wailing of Darrell Abbott’s guitar. And, just as Garza had before him, he fell in love with Pantera. So did Jim Crye, who discovered the band as a 16-year-old at a metal show at Savvy’s in Fort Worth. Inside the club, Crye clung to the barricade that separated underagers from the beer-swilling crowd. He stood watching the band all night, unable to rip himself away. Pantera had “it” – whatever “it” was.


Breakthrough, then tragedy Vocalist Terry Glaze and brothers “Dimebag” Darrell Abbott and Vinnie Paul Abbott formed Pantera in Arlington in 1981. A few players came and went before Rex Brown settled in as Pantera’s bassist. Inspired by glam-metal acts like Kiss and Van Halen, Pantera dressed the part with bullet belts, vests and voluminous hair. In 1986, Phil Anselmo replaced Glaze on vocals, bringing the thrumming, wailing, heavy metal sound that would soon become a Pantera signature. The new sound was fully formed on Pantera’s fifth album, Cowboys From Hell, recorded in Pantego and released in 1990. Drawing on the Abbott brothers’ Texas roots, the record became Pantera’s breakthrough work, commercially and critically. It reached No. 27 on the Billboard music charts, introduced the Arlington band to a vast new audience of metal fans, and inspired countless thousands of “CFH” tattoos. And as the ’90s wore on, the members of Pantera traded their Spandex and faux leather for flannel and denim. They donned cowboy hats, which covered wild, curly manes. Dimebag Darrell dyed his beard hot pink. Pantera in the early '90s: From left, Rex Brown (bass), Phil Anselmo (vocals), Vinnie Paul Abbott (drums), “Dimebag” Darrell Abbott (guitar). They grew famous, but never lost their close connection with fans. At concerts, Dimebag Darrell was known to toss shot glasses of liquor into the crowd, often without spilling a drop. He would linger in parking lots long after a show to pose for photos and sign autographs. Whether you were his best friend or a new face in the crowd, fans said, Dime treated you as the most important person in the room. But by 2000, some of the band mates had started side projects. Three years later, just after releasing a greatest-hits album, Pantera officially broke up. Dimebag Darrell and Vinnie Paul formed a new band, Damageplan. The band had barely started to take off before it came to a bizarre end one night in Columbus, Ohio. On Dec. 8, 2004, as they were about to start their set at a downtown club called the Alrosa Villa, Dimebag Darrell and his brother exchanged a fist bump. They said to each other, as they always did before a show, “Van Halen.” Minutes later, a man climbed onto the stage and strode directly toward Dimebag. In his hand was a 9 mm Beretta. He shot Darrell several times. The music stopped. As band members crowded around the fallen guitarist, someone bellowed, “Call 911, somebody! Call 911!” It was futile. Dimebag Darrell died. He was 38. “Dimebag” Darrell Abbott shows off his tattoo in the dressing room during the band’s tour stop at the UIC pavilion as part of the Reinventing the Steel Tour in 2001. (Chicago Tribune) Three other people were killed before a Columbus police officer arrived and shot the gunman dead. Dimebag Darrell’s death ignited Pantera fans everywhere. Their passion for the band was only magnified by their hero’s violent end. Gone, but not forgotten Hannon, now 46, and Garza, 49, tend bar at the Rail Club in Fort Worth. On a sticky night back in July, expletive-laced sound checks from the club’s stage occasionally interrupted a steady stream of heavy metal house music. Patrons nursed mixed drinks in plastic cups and smoked cigarettes. Long-haired, flannel-clad customers trickled in as a Mötley Crüe cover band, complete with flamethrowing guitar, played a set. Then a Ratt cover band inspired some in the crowd to gather around the stage and sing along to their favorite hits. But the audience was saving its energy for the last act of the night: a Pantera tribute band called the Primal Concrete Cowboys. Crye, the band’s guitarist, hung out in the Rail Club’s backstage area, really just a few small rooms upstairs. It’s the quietest place in the bar, and, still, its poster-papered walls rattled to the beat of the power chords from below. Crye’s heavy metal uniform was straight from the depths of the grungy ’90s: a dark, sleeveless shirt, gray cargo shorts, black wristbands, an unruly goatee and a head of thick ringlets. His biceps, shins and calves are inked with music-themed tattoos. He may fit in better at the Rail Club than at his day job. Crye, who is married with two kids, teaches macroeconomics at South Hills High School in Fort Worth. Jim Crye, who has dozens of guitars in his Fort Worth home and plays gigs when he's not teaching school, is a devotee. “I think I’ve played a Pantera song at least once a day for the last 10 years.” (Andy Jacobsohn/Staff Photographer) Whenever the Primal Concrete Cowboys take the stage, Crye does his best to do justice to Dimebag Darrell’s wailing riffs. Pantera tribute bands don’t always go over well, he said. If you play in one, fans expect you to do it for no money and to do it well. Cashing in on Pantera’s legacy is frowned upon. “Pantera’s roots run deep around here,” he said. Crye’s played guitar for more than three decades, and he’s performed at clubs since he was 17. “I think I’ve played a Pantera song at least once a day for the last 10 years,” he said. As soon as the Primal Concrete Cowboys began their sound check, the bar’s patrons surrounded the stage in anticipation. Seconds into the first song, fans were flipping their unkempt locks and throwing their fingers up in a rock ’n’ roll salute. Clusters of air guitarists shredded at invisible strings. Fans crowded the bar demanding black tooth grins — Dimebag Darrell’s signature shot, a mixture of Coke, Seagram’s 7 and Crown Royal (though the recipe varies depending on who you ask). Garza and Hannon, behind the bar, dutifully churned out dozens of tiny cups of the boozy concoction. After the Primal Concrete Cowboys’ rendition of “I’m Broken,” vocalist Jesse Herringer reminded fans why they were there: “It’s all about metal, drinkin’ with your bros and having a good time,” he thundered into the microphone. The show went out on a high note as fans joined the band onstage for “Walk.” Five ear-shattering minutes later, the bar was quiet.

Lead singer Jesse Herringer (left) of the Pantera heavy metal tribute band, Primal Concrete Cowboys, and guitarist Jim Crye perform on stage during Heavy Metal Tribute Night at The Rail Club in Fort Worth, Saturday, July 25, 2015. (Tom Fox/Staff Photographer)

‘We were called freaks’ Hannon slouched on a bar stool at the Rail Club, sucking on a Marlboro Light. He’s a metalhead, and unapologetically so. His body is a canvas of tattoos. He bragged that he’s a rebel as he poked at the Confederate flag inked into his arm. He wore black. Black jeans, a black T-shirt featuring Dimebag Darrell, black sneakers, black nail polish, black ball cap. The monochrome was broken only by his red shoelaces. “Back in the ’80s, we were called freaks,” he said with a chuckle. He was 11 when he went to his first concert — Kiss. He had a Kiss lunchbox, and liked painting his face the way the band’s members did. Hannon and Garza have been partners in crime since high school. The Arlington natives have tended bar together for as long as they can remember. (Between them, they say, they’ve probably poured more black tooth grins than anyone in the world.) And they don’t regret their path one bit. “We spent our whole lives trying to keep our genre of music alive,” Hannon said. “We’re gettin’ really old, but we’re still here every night, and we have the best seat in the house.” Every Thursday night, Hannon trades his bar cloth for a radio mike. He is Slammin’ J, the co-host of “Hard Time Radio” on KNON-FM (89.3). He’s been doing the metal radio show for more than a decade. Garza sports a large, graying beard and a black ball cap, worn backward. He’s less chatty than Hannon, but equally passionate about Pantera. “Being a bartender, I watched Pantera grow up,” he said. “I probably saw them 200 times before the Cowboys From Hell album, before they got big.” Many of the memories shared by the two friends involve Dimebag Darrell. Hannon met the guitarist many times during the height of Pantera’s fame, but they really became friends after the band broke up. He still tears up when he talks about Dime’s death. “Yeah, that was a horrible day,” he said. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve been through.” On his phone, he pulled up a photo of him, Garza and Dimebag Darrell, all in shiny black leather jackets. Dimebag Darrell, in the center, has his arms draped over his buddies’ shoulders. “After he passed away,” Garza said, “he became a god, where he should be, up there with the rest of them.”


Influence still felt On a hot mid-August afternoon, Pantera fans mingled at Gas Monkey Live! in Dallas, downing beers and listening to tributes to Dimebag Darrell. The gathering was sponsored by Ride for Dime, a charitable nonprofit dedicated to commemorating the life of the guitarist. The crowd was sparse, but fans still enjoyed slideshows and video compilations featuring Dimebag Darrell. Nick Bowcott, a founding member of the British metal band Grim Reaper, was one of the tribute artists. Bowcott first saw Pantera shortly after the release of Cowboys From Hell. “I remember after about eight bars just going, ‘I’m seeing something which is going to change the world,’” Bowcott said. “There was a magic that they had.” Pantera was the LeBron James, no, the David Beckham of metal bands, Bowcott said. He polished his Pantera riffs in the early ’90s under the tutelage of Dimebag himself. At the time, Bowcott was an associate editor at Guitar World magazine, ghostwriting columns for Dimebag. Many Pantera devotees have passed their love of the band down to their kids, giving rise to an entire generation of fans who never saw their heroes play live. Lori Johnson, 28, is one of those. “My dad raised me on Pantera,” she said, a rumpled black cowboy hat pressed down on her long blond hair. “He was always listening to it while he was working on his bikes.” She didn’t mean bicycles. ‘The music was reaL’ Jason Hannon and Jim Crye discuss the power of Pantera. ‘They still rule’ On a rainy October evening, Jim Crye was in his Fort Worth home. He has dozens of guitars — more than there are rooms in the house, he joked. He has two sons, both musicians, and he’s been married for 20 years. After his second boy was born, Crye went back to school and became a teacher. Being a rock star is still his dream, but in the meantime, teaching pays the bills. “Bologna sandwiches and ramen noodles weren’t gonna cut it,” Crye said. A Pantera flag decorates one wall. Next to the flag hang two guitars in the style of Dimebag Darrell’s. A hulking Randall amplifier rests on the floor — also like the one Dimebag used. But over the years, he’s given a lot of his Pantera memorabilia away. He hangs on to small pieces that mean a lot to him. “They still rule,” he said of the long-gone band. “There’s a big Pantera cloud around North Texas, and they’re still here.” Jason Hannon lives in that cloud, and he doesn’t plan to leave it. In his Burleson home, he perches on a stool with an Iron Maiden logo on its seat. He’s surrounded by heavy metal memorabilia. Dozens of picks and concert ticket stubs — some of them stained with blood — are framed on the wall. Kiss action figures, still in their boxes, border the room. And, of course, there’s no shortage of Pantera stuff.

KNON (FM 89.3) Hard Time Radio co-host Slammin' J, Jason Hannon, poses for a photograph with a Dimebag tribute guitar at his Burleson, Texas home. (Tom Fox/Staff Photographer)

Hannon produces two black Pantera shot glasses — one for him, another for a visitor — and a bottle of Crown Royal. Mindful that his visitor is working, he pretends to pour liquor into the small cups. “First and foremost,” he says, raising his empty shot glass full of pretend whiskey, “to Dime.” Hannon tilts the shot glass back as if to drain it, and sets it down. “I’m 46 years old, and I’m still a freakin’ metalhead,” Hannon says. “Your parents always said, ‘Oh, you’ll grow outta that when you get older.’ I won’t. I’ll never grow out of it. Hopefully I’ll be 80 years old and in a wheelchair with a Slayer sticker on the back.” He doesn’t care if people find his obsession silly, maybe even a little sad. They don’t understand why he loves the music, what it means to him and his comrades. Pantera is what they hold on to, in good times and bad. “This is our life,” Hannon says. “We’re cowboys from hell.”