IRON MAIDEN - Killers 12" Vinyl LP Album

- Germany 2nd Pressing

Clive Burr (8 March 1957 – 12 March 2013) is one of those drummers who didn’t just keep time—he gave a band its early backbone. I mainly hear him as Iron Maiden’s rocket fuel from 1979–1982, laying down that urgent, swinging drive on their first run of classic records and helping make the whole NWOBHM thing feel dangerous instead of polite. Before that, he did the London grind with Samson (1977–1978). After Maiden, the timeline gets gloriously nomadic: Trust (1983–1984), a blink-and-you-miss-it week with Alcatrazz (1983), his own Clive Burr’s Escape (1983–1984) evolving into Stratus (1984–1985), the supergroup cameo in Gogmagog (1985), Desperado (1988–1990), and later work with Praying Mantis (1995–1996). His later years were brutally shaped by multiple sclerosis, but the playing legacy stays loud, human, and unmistakably his own—Clive Burr Wiki

Dave Murray (born 23 December 1956, Edmonton, Middlesex, England) is one of the defining lead guitar voices of heavy metal, and in my book he’s the melodic “second spine” of Iron Maiden. His timeline with the band starts early: joining in 1976, getting briefly pushed out in 1977, then returning in 1978 and staying locked in ever since—making him one of the longest-serving members in the whole Maiden saga. During that 1977 gap he spent around six months with Urchin (Adrian Smith’s band), which is a fun little historical glitch in the matrix if you like your Maiden lore messy and human. Beyond the main band, his most notable “outside the mothership” credit is the all-star charity metal project Hear ’n Aid (1985), because apparently even guitar lifers sometimes leave the bunker to do side quests. Dave Murray Wiki

Paul Di'Anno, (17 May 1958 – 21 October 2024) locked himself into metal history by fronting Iron Maiden from 1978–1981, putting that snarling, rough-cut voice on the band’s early landmark releases. After Maiden, the timeline turns into a proper tour-bus saga: Di’Anno (1983–1985, then revived in the 1998–2001 era), the short, star-stacked Gogmagog detour (1985), Battlezone (1985–1989, back again 1997–1998), a notable studio cameo with Praying Mantis around 1990, and Killers (1990–1997, returning 2001–2003, plus a 2013 regroup). Later chapters include the Brazil-based Rockfellas run (2008–2010) and Architects of Chaoz (2014–2016). The common thread never really changed: that unmistakable, no-varnish vocal attitude that made early NWOBHM feel dangerous in the first place.

Steve Harris (born 12 March 1956, Leytonstone, England) is the rare bassist who doesn’t just hold the floor—he draws the whole blueprint. In my book, he’s the founder and primary songwriter who’s kept Iron Maiden on its rails from 1975–present, with that instantly recognizable “gallop” driving huge chunks of the catalogue. The pre-Maiden grind matters too: first band days in Influence/Gypsy’s Kiss (1973–1974, including a documented gig run in 1974), then the older, blues-leaning Smiler period (1974–1975) where his more ambitious writing basically forced the next step: forming Maiden. Outside the mothership, he’s fronted his own hard-rock outlet British Lion (2012–present), a project that grew out of connections going back to the early 1990s and finally hit the world as his solo debut in 2012.

Adrian Smith, Adrian Smith, he writes riffs the way old street poets throw punches: clean, sharp, and memorable. Before the Maiden machine, I hear him in Urchin (1973–1980), already mixing melody with bite. He joined Iron Maiden in November 1980, helped define their twin-guitar gold through 1990, then stepped away as the band’s direction shifted. In the wilderness years he tried A.S.A.P (1989–1990) and led Psycho Motel (1993–1999), plus a stint in Bruce Dickinson’s solo band (1997–1999). Since his return to Iron Maiden in 1999 he’s stayed a key songwriter, while still stretching out with projects like Smith/Kotzen (2020–present). He’s the guy who makes speed feel singable, not just fast for fast’s sake.

Birch didn’t just record noise; he organized aggression. By 1972, he was already wrangling the messy brilliance of Deep Purple’s Machine Head, turning Ian Gillan’s banshee wails into something that didn't just clip the tape but lived inside it. In 1980, he pulled off the ultimate renovation, giving Black Sabbath a much-needed shower and a new spine. Heaven and Hell shouldn't have worked, but Martin polished that Birmingham sludge into something operatic and gleaming. It was a pivot that felt like fate, mostly because he refused to let the mid-range get lazy.

Then came the long, obsessive stretch with Iron Maiden from 1981 to 1992. It was a twelve-year marriage to the fader. From the moment Killers (EMC 3357, for those who care) hit the shelves, the sound was physical. He knew how to let Steve Harris’s bass clatter like a machine gun without drowning out the melody—a sonic miracle that still feels fresh. You can almost smell the ozone and the dust on the Marshall stacks when the needle drops on The Number of the Beast. He stayed until Fear of the Dark, then simply walked away. No victory lap, no bloated memoir. He preferred the hum of the desk to the noise of the crowd, leaving us with nothing but the records and a slight sense of abandonment. But then, when you’ve already captured lightning on tape for twenty years, why bother hanging around for the rain?