72 SEASONS
4/14/2023
At first, the title doesn’t make much sense. As a band, Metallica is approaching 170 seasons. Each band member has clocked over 200. This is album 11, seven years after album 10. The runtime is 77 minutes, which is close at least. Oh, wait, James Hetfield is speaking.
“72 seasons. The first 18 years of our lives that form our true or false selves. The concept that we were told 'who we are' by our parents. A possible pigeonholing around what kind of personality we are. I think the most interesting part of this is the continued study of those core beliefs and how it affects our perception of the world today. Much of our adult experience is reenactment or reaction to these childhood experiences. Prisoners of childhood or breaking free of those bondages we carry.”
It’s amazing what you can learn when you seek out information.
“72 Seasons”—Dumb but confident; like Load if the good bits had been actual songs instead of bits. The hammer falls without fanfare, and if the audience craved flash before smash, too bad. Here’s grit in yer grits. Those who try to exit via bridge shall be sliced to ribbons.
“Shadows Follow”—As they are wont to do. Far from hideous, but a distinct regression after track one.
“Screaming Suicide”—A tidy spring back with a compelling take on a tired topic.
The lessons of youth inform us. Maybe they deform us. My mud pit is your honey pot, and vice versa.
“Sleepwalk My Life Away”—Metallica is not now nor ever shall be intellectuals, furthermore their desire to craft meticulous sonic mosaics has dwindled into a a dust mite. The very human struggles of their frontman combined with said frontman’s very human desire to confront the demons responsible for those struggles has happened before, with disastrous results. Fortunately, Hetfield (and Lars Ulrich, who must receive his credit no matter how begrudgingly) remembered something vital: Metallica is a band as august as it is popular. If innovation is off the table, if complexity is no longer in the cards, fine. But ass-kicking cannot be forsaken. Metal music, no matter the permutation, depends on ass-kicking like the Earth depends on the Sun.
“You Must Burn!”—Whatever you make of likening the online bully brigade to the marching murderous mobs of olden times (the erasure of history must not be allowed, is all I'll say in this space), “You Must Burn!” is a fine example of how dangerous the “calm yet wild” approach can be.
“Lux Æterna”—This smacks. Open-hand on bare skin. A bunny-boink at only 3:22, because looking back too long may turn a man into sand.
“Crown Of Barbed Wire”—Pop a Prilosec in honor of every poor decision you ever made in the name of the greater good.
“Chasing Light”—When turned on, Metallica’s light is still bright, still loud, still useful. But it’s an incadescent bulb in a world of LEDs.
“If Darkness Had A Son”—Initially teased on Metallica’s TikTok...which is not even jokingly one of the most depressing things I’ve ever published on this blog.
If Demon Boy cosplay helps Mr. Hetfield handle his temptations, who am I to raise an eyebrow at testosterone-soaked displays of vulnerability? It took a few tries, but he seems to comprehend how personal tragedy can lapse into professional comedy, and is not making the same mistakes that doomed past efforts.
“Too Far Gone?”—I, I am unimpressed.
“Room Of Mirrors”—Oh, I like this. Mighty tight with a message for the listeners. The judgmental, the forgiving, the fans, the foes, the fisherfolk—this is for all them.
“Inamorata”—The epic, predictably placed. Three minutes over the limit. Why must “misery” be a woman? Jack Daniel, Johnnie Walker, Jose Cuervo, Jim Beam—now you tell me.
72 Seasons is a stripped-back offering. It’s moody, bruised up, yet the taste for blood remains. I’d recommend it to any fan of the band, but I’ll make no promises. A Metallica album hasn’t attached itself to my skull since The Black Album, and I’ve adjusted my expectations accordingly.
