Judas Priest were snakebitten. Labels would sign them, then fold. They worked with Tony Iommi’s management agency, but still had to scrap together demos, money, and red-eyed mornings to even get into the studio. They limited themselves to one meal a day to save money while recording. Tragedy had also struck; original guitarist John Perry committed suicide at 18 before the band even released an album. In 1975, soon to be Metal God Glenn Tipton was a mere mortal, working as a gardener, and even the “metal” part was under scrutiny.
Priest, Judas fucking Priest, did not start as a metal band. Their 1974 debut Rocka Rolla, from the unfortunately titled lead single “Run of the Mill” to the generic Coke bottle album cover, was the sound of a middling band barely able to ascend to “hard rock.” Just a few years after its release, Tipton called Rocka Rolla “musically inadequate,” and vocalist Rob Halford would joke that their fans should burn every copy of the album they could find.
It was a pale facsimile of Priest’s tourmates’ work. In a post Black Sabbath and Machine Head world, British heavy metal bands were experimenting with plenty of sounds, but no one seemed to agree what would be the next evolution of the still murky genre. UFO nicked licks from Southern rock, Budgie was giving prog bands like Yes some funny looks, while degenerates Pink Fairies fit right into the burgeoning punk scene. Thankfully, Judas Priest did not reiterate and refine Rocka Rolla. Instead, they would sow the seeds of multiple sub-genres in one fell swoop. They made Sad Wings of Destiny and shifted the course of metal, nay, rock, forever.
What connected all of the new wave of British heavy metal was unease. Thatcher’s Britain degraded life for school kids, immigrants, and laborers, and plenty of aspiring artists were crushed by a strip-mined welfare state and the creep of deindustrialization. After Rocka Rolla’s commercial failure, most of Priest were working full-time jobs and recording from 3 p.m. to 3 a.m. But between all the misery, the failure of Rocka Rolla had locked in Priest’s legendary core: Tipton, Halford, and guitarist K. K. Downing.
Part of Rocka Rolla’s problem, and Sad Wings’ gain, was producer Rodger Bain. He’d done work for Sabbath and Budgie but seemed to be dead set on sabotaging Priest’s career. He threw out three songs from Rocka Rolla that would later appear on Sad Wings: “Tyrant,” “Genocide,” and “The Ripper.” Between Bain, Iommi, and Gull records (who released Priest’s first records), there was a sense that no one knew exactly what to do with the band. Yes, Rob Halford could unleash a banshee-like wail on par with Ian Gillan, but Priest didn’t boogie like Deep Purple. The intwining guitar work of Tipton and Downing was intriguing, but fellow dual-guitar threat Thin Lizzy was also struggling commercially.
Priest proved they were outliers from the first song on Sad Wings. Starting an album with a nearly eight-minute-long track after a commercial flop is a bold choice. Even more perplexing (for the time) was the lyrical subversion of “Victim of Changes.” The first verse, if skimmed through, was just another drinking anthem or sordid tale of evil women tempting good men. Instead, “Victim of Changes” is about alcoholism slowly destroying a relationship. The mind, body, and soul breaking down under the weight of infidelity and drunken rage. The machine gun bridge has Halford’s character accusing a partner of cheating on him, only to turn inward and realize he’s the problem, growling “I’ve had enough / good god pluck me.” Halford’s snarl and the chugging riff only temporarily hide the pain that charges “Victim of Changes” with potency.
This was the era where the power ballad was just becoming codified. And thanks to Nazareth’s wounded buttrock cover of the Everly Brothers “Love Hurts,” an eyeroll inducing template had been slapped together. There’s a better world where Sabbath’s “Changes,” Blue Oyster Cult’s “Astronomy,” and Priest’s “Dreamer Deceiver” became the blueprint for power ballads, rather than the later day spandex and sexism of Motley Crew. And the live performance of “Dreamer Deceiver” on The Old Grey Whistle Test might’ve saved the band. This is before the hellbent for leather era, with Halford looking like a warlock prepping for a Playgirl center spread and the rest of the band caught between hippy drop out and Mad Max extra. It is shocking to see Downing shredding a ravishing, blistering solo while looking like a roadie for the Eagles. Despite the aesthetic confusion, it was the sound of a band unabashedly confident and solidified themselves as one of the best live bands of the era.
Don’t mistake Sad Wings for a dour turn into pure heartache. There’s plenty of glorious camp. “The Ripper” has Halford playing Jack the Ripper with Sweeney Todd drama. Panned and overdubbed vocals have miniature Halfords repeating “shock!” and “fog!” like a giggling Greek chorus. You can hear him smile, chewing on hammy lines like “eternal and nameless / except for the ripper / or if you like jack the kniiifffe!” The uncoiling riff that begins the song eventually bursts into a solo that acts as a game of spot the influence. Metallica’s Kirk Hammett took his hyper melodic moments from “The Ripper,” and Dave Murray’s playing on “2 Minutes to Midnight” absolutely cribs from Tipton here. Drummer Alan Moore, who was in and out of the band for years and would leave after Sad Wings, has his finest moments on “The Ripper.” He backs the dueling solos with a thumping gallop that rubbed off on Iron Maiden’s Nicko McBrain.
No one else knew what to do with Priest, but Sad Wings sounds like a band realizing its own strengths. The rest of the world be damned. Halford doesn’t do his almighty screech as much as he would on Screaming for Vengeance, but he punctuates every emotional climax with one of his trademark wails. He was also becoming more comfortable with his natural tenor range. Just after “Genocide” breaks into a double time bridge, Halford’s vocals soar, like he’s a third guitar rather than a vocalist. The twin-headed monster of Tipton and Downing were also moving away from the refried blues licks that were dominating the era. The sharp riff on “Genocide” has ZZ Top in its DNA, and the sprinting “Deceiver” goes through subtle melodic shifts. There’s also a graceful balance between camp and drama on “Tyrant,” with Halfords’ sliding vocals repeating the chorus, slowly building up layers of harmonies over a punishing riff. Tipton and Downing egging each other on, making more complex structures, weaving their lines together.
“Tyrant” also has the album’s best guitar work, with a classical inspired solo that seems to be ever ascending, flying further and further into the stratosphere, closing with a brief snippet from Deep Purple’s “Highway Star,” before the dueling lead melody intwines again. In retrospect, it was a case of wonderful serendipity that Sad Wings was released the same day as Thin Lizzy’s Jailbreak, another foundational guitar text. Thin Lizzy found success by trimming the fat. Judas Priest, meanwhile, were stretching out their legs. In one day, a million wannabe garage guitar gods were born.
“Epitaph” was Priest’s version of Sabbath’s “Changes,” and, taken in context with “Victim of Changes,” this was a band of young men already meditating on aging and death. Not in the Kvlt worship of murder and gore, but a realistic, mournful view on the inevitable passage of time. Priest were a firmly working-class band who had gone through more trials and tribulations in their formative years than most bands had in their entire careers. Halford nods to Neil Young’s “Old Man” on “Epitaph” as he passes by a weeping geezer on a bench. “He’s our tomorrow / Just as much as we are his yesterday,” he cries, as a memento mori. But “Epitaph” segues into closer “Island of Domination,” Halford returning to his hypersonic wail over a thudding, thuggish riff. He relishes the alliteration of “spine snapper!” and Downing and Tipton, after taking a song off, rush into more galloping riffs to close the album, all dexterous picking and sudden flashes of mini solos like an electrical storm crackling with power.
The technical proficiency from every member of Priest is what elevated Sad Wings. Their closest compatriots, Motorhead, UFO, and Budgie, were interested in progressive rock in so far as making their own music heavier, but Priest gleefully experimented with the classical trappings and tender moments from Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here and the complex, interlocking structures of Genesis’ The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. And of course there was Halford’s reverence for Freddie Mercury. While other metal bands could view their singer’s voice more as a weapon or secondary instrument (see: the wails on Deep Purple’s “Child in Time”), Priest knew a great vocal range isn’t just important for harmonic qualities, but for emotional impact. Halford’s work on Sad Wings, while never truly delicate, wielded dynamic contrast as a storyteller and singer, directly tied to Mercury’s performances on “Killer Queen” and “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
Sad Wings planted the roots of multiple sub-genres. It’s arguably the first progressive metal album, and the high-drama of power metal wouldn’t exist without it. Iron Maiden certainly would still be around without Priest, but would they have had the confidence to indulge in their most operatic moments without Sad Wings? Or look at Metallica, whose debut in ’83 Kill ‘Em All was more indebted to hardcore punk than anything else. Erase Sad Wings and could they later craft something as compassionate as “Fade to Black,” or progressive as “Master of Puppets”?
50 years on, Judas Priest are still recording, still touring, still gods, wielding unimaginable influence. Picking a favorite Priest record says more about the listener than Priest themselves, due to the sheer expanse of sounds they tested and created. Sad Wings is one of their three best albums and as opposed to the pure metal thrills of Screaming for Vengeance or the unmatched brutality of Painkiller, it’s the sound of an entire genre taking a great leap forward, grabbing the torch from Sabbath and propelling all of metal into the future. Sad Wings of Destiny is one of those wonderful rarities: an artifact that still compels.
Nathan Stevens is a musician, archivist, and podcaster whose work has appeared in Spectrum Culture, Stereogum, and Popmatters. He currently runs the music interview website Woodhouse.