Iron Maiden’s first four albums—Iron Maiden, Killers, The Number of the Beast, and Piece of Mind—have been reissued again. It’s part of a year-long project by Parlophone to recommit the band’s 16 studio albums to CD, four at a time, though availability has never exactly been an issue. These versions don’t add much; they are CD dumps of 2015 vinyl remasters with the original British tracklists. Knowing that hardcore Maiden collectors are legion, the only addition is that The Number of the Beast—the band’s third album and the first featuring dynamo singer Bruce Dickinson—includes a plastic figurine of the iconic Eddie and a patch of, well, the Devil. Cynically, it’s a cash grab. Still, this is the band that harnessed 1980s fear and turmoil in order to shape metal as we know it, and these records deserve any life support a record label wants to give them.
These four albums, issued one per year from 1980 to 1983, show a band in constant mutation: Melodies get stronger. Arrangements get more intricate. Dickinson replaces the scrappy upstart Paul Di’Anno, pushing the band to the next level of power and popularity. These records are not flawed but certainly developmental, battles won and occasionally lost on the journey to supremacy. Beast and Piece of Mind are redoubtable metal classics; still, even if it’s hard to consider “Run to the Hills” and “The Trooper” pieces of a work in progress, they are points along Maiden’s path to becoming the global behemoth that made 1984’s Powerslave, their landmark fifth album. And watching Maiden develop was watching metal develop, shaking off the haze of 1970s boogie and speeding up its attack while borrowing from the harder side of progressive rock. If Sabbath birthed metal, Maiden looks and oftentimes sounds more like metal’s stereotypical boogeyman.
Maiden arose from the New Wave of British Heavy Metal (NWOBHM) scene at the dawn of the ’80s, though they’re so foundational to metal they’re often not talked about in that way. You link Maiden with Sabbath and Judas Priest, not Tygers of Pan Tang and Satan. The distance is evident from the jump on their self-titled debut, brimming with hooks and attitude. “Running Free” is the first archetypal song from a band with several of them, as they doggedly pursue some ambiguous form of “freedom.” It barely matters what freedom is, though, as Di’Anno convincingly sells the idea that going blind into the future is the only way during the gutsy chorus. “Prowler” succeeds on self-assurance, too. It’s unclear on Maiden’s first two records if Di’Anno is an untethered beast or a weird stalker (probably the latter), but he gives Maiden’s crisp melodies an energy that would remain a calling card.
Di’Anno excels at these kinds of barreling tracks, which is why he ultimately wasn’t long for the world of Maiden. “Phantom of the Opera,” to wit, seems written for Bruce Dickinson two years before he joined Maiden, as it’s the first taste of what bassist and mastermind Steve Harris wanted his band to be. It’s here that Harris sets the template for Maiden’s longer, more complicated but melodically rich songs by fusing jumping basslines inspired by Yes to bastardized classical ideas routed through heavy rock (in essence, metal, or what Deep Purple’s Ritchie Blackmore had done). “Remember Tomorrow” isn’t even as complex as “Opera,” but you can still hear Di’Anno’s limits during the quasi-ballad. It’s too slow for his hesher persona, requiring a sensitivity he just couldn’t summon.
In 1981, Killers shined floodlights on the debut’s dinginess, allowing Maiden to clear the muck from a dirty rocker like “Purgatory” without removing its grimey heart. Adrian Smith’s addition on second guitar allows for bombastic dynamics with Dave Murray, another piece of Maiden’s grand design. “Wrathchild” blends the menace of “Prowler” and the breezy fun of “Running Free,” while “Murders in the Rue Morgue” shows that Di’Anno is trying to match Harris’ ambition as he keeps up with the jittery bass. By doubling down on attitude, and bolstered by the record’s brightness, he sounds more confident and able. And on the title track, he introduces two vocal tics that Dickinson would master—terse declarations in the verses, arena-ready “whoas” in the open spaces.
There are still fans who insist that the Di’Anno Maiden of these first two albums is the best Maiden—contrarians, honestly. Those declarations undercut metal’s capacity for exploration, growth, and having a higher sense of purpose. Sure, “Wrathchild” and “Free” are plenty great and far more memorable than most NWOBHM obscurities, but they wouldn’t have made Maiden a global force. It’s not all about Di’Anno, either; Harris was still refining his ideas as a songwriter. He hadn’t yet loosened the reins for other members, but he also hadn’t fully tapped into the progressive rock that would influence Maiden from the mid-’80s onward. Still, the short but intricate “Genghis Khan” is probably best left as an instrumental, anyway—it would be too much for Di’Anno to handle.
Iron Maiden emerged as more than a way-above-average NWOBHM band on 1982’s The Number of the Beast. The proof is instant on “Invaders,” an underrated Maiden opener that shows just how much Dickinson vitalized the band as he yells “IN-VADERS!” in acrobatic high notes. Murray and Smith bob and weave, pierce and strike in calculated disarray; they get wilder, because Dickinson’s technical aplomb has empowered them.
The explosive wails at the end of “Children of the Damned” set the bar for the higher-the-better theatrics that would soon become a metal hallmark. As when Dio joined Sabbath, the vocalist switch was never simply about technical ability. Harris’ writing boasted a dizzying drama that Di’Anno was too streetwise to nail. But here was a voice that could match him. Real mania drips from Dickinson’s every word during “22 Acacia Avenue,” a feeling the straightforward Di’Anno would have missed.
What’s more, who knew a band that still packs soccer stadiums would be so existential? During “The Number of the Beast” and “Hallowed Be Thy Name,” two of Maiden’s definitive songs, Dickinson and Harris pit the self against the world and one’s own self-judgement and temptation. “Hallowed” is Maiden not just versus death but also versus fate, versus the powers that be, versus the fear that you’ll end up watching your sands of time run low. Its somber opening presaged metal’s forthcoming darker tones, too. “The Number of the Beast” works the same way, essentially saying you’re going to encounter some bad shit when you’re cutting loose. Do you take the plunge? In heavy metal, of course.
A year later, on Piece of Mind, the classic Iron Maiden lineup finally cohered, with Nicko McBrain replacing Clive Burr on drums. Just as Dickinson turned the start of Beast into a showcase as to why he was the one for the job, the arresting, tom-filled opening of “Where Eagles Dare” does the same for McBrain. He is more crisp and fluid, like a relaxed Neil Peart but every bit as ecstatic. The songs here again run up against hopeless situations and make music from the despair. “Flight of Icarus” indulges in Dickinson’s mythology geekery and unintentionally presages The Decline of Western Civilization II, the infamous documentary that featured many hair metal bands flying too close to the sun.
Though bursting with melodies and some of Dickinson’s most dramatic performances, “Die With Your Boots On” and “The Trooper” don’t romanticize war. Dying by the state isn’t cool, whether it’s getting shot at in the name of imperialism or by the death penalty. Dickinson is the most convincing drill sergeant, yelling that this isn’t triumph. The triumph comes from overcoming war and misery, always Maiden’s aim.
Theocracy doesn’t entail burning “Satanic” metal records en masse anymore, and demagogues may not seem as sneaky as they once were. But Maiden’s message—“If you’re gonna die, die with your boots on,” or don’t back down in metal parlance—has persevered. Maybe that’s why, even if these reissues are mere collector bait, Maiden still speaks, screams, and solos to our times nearly four decades after these records were made. War’s still hell, stalkers and grifters still abound, and dreams still get deferred. That’s reason enough for heavy metal, reason enough for Iron Maiden. “Life down here is just a strange illusion,” Dickinson offers during “Hallowed,” perhaps not even knowing how right he is.
