Old Bay Til I'm Old And Gray

 

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. 

Go For the Ribs

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Aren't You Lucky

BEYOND MAGNETIC
1/30/2012

Initially made available on iTunes on 12/13/2011 before being given a physical release a month later, Beyond Magnetic is comprised of the four songs that were excised from the final tracklisting for Death Magnetic. 

"Hate Train"--"Fuel" with a forced smile.  Hetfield's cadence reminds of me Lenny Kravitz on "Are You Gonna Go My Way?"  Hey, remember that chick drummer Kravitz had?  What's her name…Cindy Blackman!  Yeah, did you know she's married to Carlos Santana?  Bet ya didn't.  Did you know she's a better drummer than Lars Ulrich?  Bet ya did.

"Just a Bullet Away"--"Dry" is not a negative adjective for a piece of music so long as there is power in abundance.  Determination prevails over poor production, or there wouldn't be any punk rock records worth listening to. 

While the title Death Magnetic was inspired by the rise and demise of Alice In Chains singer Layne Staley, the track most explicitly about him didn't make the final cut.  Not entirely sure why; fuck guns, this is one of the faster, grittier bouts of hand-to-hand combat 21st century Metallica have taken part in.  And while James Hetfield remains unsophisticated in his empathy, addicts lamenting other addicts sure beats addicts publicly mocking other addicts.

"Hell and Back"--A small insect crawling up one's back isn't an unpleasant sensation if you don't know or think about what's causing it.  Likewise, these new Metallica songs aren't at all bad if you can overlook Hetfield's constipated vocals.

"Rebel of Babylon"--More Deathstyles of the Poor and Lowly.  Eight minutes of glorified oblivion, four of those in the mutating forms of highly-charged crescendos.  Get discombobulated to this.


It would be ideal if Metallica's newest full-length is a continuation of the Death Magnetic sound (minus the God Static, that is).  Would also be ideal if Metallica released said full-length before half of its current fanbase is dead.


* I wrote this review back in July 2013, and wouldn't you know, the day I begin to prep this review for publication is the day videos begin circulating from the band's March 16th show in Bogota, Columbia.  The setlist seems pretty basic, with the marked exception of a new song, the eight-minute "The Lords of Summer."  The running time is neither here or there (a rule of thrash metal) but that title is rotted carcass levels of hideous and if I don't hear the lyrics "Out on the road today/I saw an Exodus sticker on a Prius" I will be both relieved and ashamed.  No, I won't be sharing my opinion on the track here, as I have a personal "six month" rule when it comes to these reviews.  (Also, it's a friggin' live version.)  Believe I am wishing for the best. 

Butterfly In the Jar

LULU
11/1/2011
(The only occasion to date that two Big 4 bands have released records on the same day in North America.  Megadeth outsold Metallica by 29,000 copies, but then again Lulu is not just Metallica, so ha ha, thwarted again, you soulless ginger prick.)

Yeah, Lulu is not a Metallica album.  It's Metallica and that "Walk On the Wild Side" guy pairing up for a project that sent their respective fantasies into apoplectic fits and I'm somehow supposed to seek out a reason to avoid reviewing this?

Performing together at the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame's 25th Anniversary show in 2009 planted the seed.  Initially, Lou thought it would be dandy to work out new renditions of his older, unreleased material with the world's most famous heavy metal act, but then honed in on songs he had composed for Lulu, a theatrical production of the Frank Wedekind plays Earth Spirit and Pandora's Box.  These works feature mariticide, unrequited lesbian love, prostitution and Jack the fuckin' Ripper.  All of which sounds too fascinating to be put (even partially) in the hands of modern day Metallica.  But as Lars Ulrich said:  "Lulu is almost like two languages.  We have m-e-t-a-l in our name.  But we can go fucking anywhere and do anything." 

See?  It's not an album, it's a fucking episode of Reading Rainbow! 

"Brandenburg Gate"--Let's kick it off with some rehearsal!  No no, put that pesky electricity away for now.

How to describe that feeling that shoots throughout my body approximately a minute into "Brandenburg Gate"?  See, this high-fiber diet, low-calorie diet has multifarious benefits, but no small number of detriments as well.  Several late nights during the week I'll be lying in bed, trying to entice sleep, but the solar plexus pull proves too great, and I find myself stumbling towards the kitchen.  I enter the darkened area without bothering to fumble for the light switch--the refrigerator draws me to it with magnetic ease.  I reach out a hand, grasp, pull…the light emanating from the interior of the appliance is nothing compared to the light in my eyes.  A festival of digestibles rests on the shelves--cans and bottles of quenching liquids; tightly-wrapped dishes holding an array of meats, vegetables and sauces.  All of it is immensely appealing.  Any of it would satisfy my urge.  But nothing quite so fully as that slice of red velvet cake hiding underneath some plastic.  I grab it and bring it to my breast.  I am one step closer to completion. 

"SMALL TOWN GIIIRRRRLLLLL!"

"The View"--Lars, would you seriously with the cymbals? 

Discussing the highs of the Lulu experience, Lou told Rolling Stone, "The drums are no joke."  Lou, the drums are all the jokes.  "Knock-knock" to "practical" to "poor taste ethnic." You, on the other paw?  Golden.  I adore Lou on "The View."  His coffeehouse tone and delivery over the brick-brained chord pattern keeps me intrigued, even as James Hetfield tries to ruin it with his fantastical proclamations.

"Pumping Blood"--Chewie, hit the throttle to activate the hyperdrive 'cause kee-rist, this got weird quick. 

Lou quavers out some winners:  "Oh Jack I beseech thee."  "I will swallow your sharpest cutter like a colored man's dick."  Throughout time, women have said some odd things to bring their sex partner to orgasm.

The guitars here are pretty perfect--for the midsection of another song.  The result here is what I feared it would be for the majority of the record:  Lou Reed recites nonsense, Metallica goes CHUNK CHUNK CHUNK.  Obviously Metallica didn't need to adopt the "Legatos Or Bust" mentality to make this oddball collabo work, but they definitely needed to know when and how to sound like more than just Lou Reed's backing band.  Here, they sound like Lou Reed's backing band. 

The drums, I swear…if Lars Ulrich were a waiter, he'd only refill half of your glass.  I hope those wasps get him but good.

"Mistress Dread"--As I just bitched about how rote and "stock"--har har--the guit-fiddles on the last song sounded, so must I praise them here for taking no prisoners.  If only they weren't an anomaly in the bigger picture! 

The repetition makes me genuinely warm from laughter instead of boiling from rage and for that reason I recommend "Mistress Dread" for the next time you need a hilarious distraction (apply as needed). 

Lulu wants a mouthful of spit and shit?  Absolution via degradation, you say?  Cool, 'cause I just got back from a secret rendezvous with the late-night menu at Taco Bell.  I guess a crap is as good as a kiss to a filthy whore.  Wait, am I being a gender traitor?  I'm just saying, of the two of us, Lulu's odds of being found dead in a hotel room with her intestines draped over the headboard are far greater than mine. 

"Iced Honey"--Why did Lou and Johnny Cash never collaborate?  Two raconteurs, one masterpiece.  Guaranteed. 

The bad boys and their treasure map with the singed corners prove a bit much for Lou, who sounds in dire need of a straight line to a bench.  If nothing else, really, the title is stupendous.  Winnie the Pooh in a parka, look of unbearable anticipation on his precious ursine face.  That's what I see.

"Cheat On Me"--Men adore a woman who care nothing for them beyond the occasional fleshly escape. 

"I want lovers like the rain."  No way, I want lovers like the snow--just lay there and look pretty.

"Frustration"--This one goes out to you, Metallica fans convinced your heroes have lost their friggin' marbles!  This one goes out to you, Lou Reed fans convinced your hero is engaging in the most pathetic pandering possible!

I hate songs that tell me what and/or how to think and/or feel.  I loathe songs that nail my thoughts and feelings to a "t."  That's a violation of the creator-consumer trust.  There needs to exist at all times a barrier of great tensile strength between us, Art.  If you want to screw, and I want it too, fine.  But let's get a sheet and a pair of scissors first. 

"Lexicon of hate"--that's pretty metal.  (You could sell it on Etsy.)  "Puke my guts out"--that's pretty Metallica.  Think back to when Jason Newsted had just left, James Hetfield was seeking professionals to assist in the fight with his demons, and the future of the band was in doubt.  All of that uncertainty was like a virus churning in the gut of Metallica.  The only way to get better was to vomit all the bad stuff out.  And that vomit…was St. Anger.  Subsequent to this purgative puke, Death Magnetic showed the band at renewed health. 

Lou Reed, you astute bastard.

"Little Dog"--Banana pudding without vanilla wafers.  Is what this is.

"Dragon"--Some rabidly brain-deficient members of the Metallica famileeh sent Lou Reed threats of violence for aiding and abetting in the horrendous crime of Lulu.  Did they not realize that the man they were promising to pummel had, decades prior, made himself persona non grata in the mainstream music scene for daring to release the wordless feedback-fest known as Metal Machine Music at the height of his commercial success?  Poor pitiful creatures, indeed. 

"Opium white bathrobe"?  Dude, I used that in a Thurston Moore parody poem years ago! 

"Junior Dad"--It is possible to make a good nineteen-minute song.  It has been done.  

With Vangelis composing the guitars, apparently, Lou proceeds to relay the desultory tale of a boy who grew up hating his father only to become like his father as he progressed deeper and deeper into adulthood.  Thus, a "Junior Dad."  (James Hetfield and Kirk Hammett were apparently brought to tears in the studio.)  My father died several years ago, and this didn't make me cry.  Or even sniffle.  I suppose it wasn't meant to, but I'd love to hear a song by a female artist outlining the myriad of depressing, unsavory ways she's becoming just like her tormented father.  No, wait…probably I wouldn't love to hear that. 



Lulu is nowhere near the self-indulgent disaster it had the potential to be (and that some people insist is is), but nor would I call it a true success.  Lars Ulrich claimed, "This makes …And Justice For All sound like the first Ramones album."  The best parts of Lulu can hang with some of the better moments on Justice, but no individual song (okay, maybe the agonizingly delightful "Mistress Dread") is better than that albums nadir.  Likewise, the worst parts of Lulu make a Ramones chopped and screwed album sound like a fantastic idea, could some high-off-his-ass motherfucker in Texas please get on that one posthaste?

Accessibility is overrated when the masses are such opiate-laced asses, but so is experimentation.  Too often here band and singer sounded at loggerheads.  Rather than cite that as a reason to say, "Fuck this album with a long rusty thing," I'll concede that if Lou Reed and Metallica had decided to do a true collaboration right there in the studio, with fresh lyrics and music, pushing and pulling, acting and reacting, giving and taking, well, the results could have been highly enjoyable. 

By all means--innovate the model.  Experiment on the specimen.  Explore the realm.  Deviate from the well-worn path.  Just don't forget to poke some holes and let that beautiful thing breathe, eh? 

It Ain't Like That Anymore

DEATH MAGNETIC
9/12/2008

St. Anger was packed sick with hate-worthy things:  the lack of focus, the pretension passed off as reinvention, the omission of guitar solos, "experimental" drums, and allowing Montresor to handle the mix.  Seeing that the follow-up was comprised of ten songs totaling 74 minutes didn't fill me to overflowing with the good vibes.

However…Death Magnetic is a very good album.  A classic?  No.  But given the last few records in the Metallica discography, I will accept a very good album with a smile and plate of warm chocolate chip cookies, thanks.  Metallica has whipped up a gumbo yet again but this time I don't detect the odor of rotted okra.

What is discernible, unfortunately, is a stench that permeates many modern musical releases.  Whether it was the idea of the band themselves, or producer Rick Rubin, the fact is Death Magnetic was fed compression like Homer Simpson was fed donuts in Hell.  This is just another salvo fired in the so-called "loudness war," a battle for listeners being shamelessly fought by studio warriors determined to create a product that can make a nuclear bomb detonation sound like a baby's sneeze.  The emphasis on super-compressed dynamic range leads to distortion and clipping, and while everyone's ears hear thangs differently, over 22,000 fans signed an online petition to have the album remixed (not to be confused with the petition to have St. Anger re-written and re-recorded). 

Did the band care?  No.  Their management even played up this crushing of musical notes against each other in a most inconsiderate orgy as an exciting new sound.   Given that many articles concerning the "loudness wars" cite Oasis' (What's the Story) Morning Glory? as arguably the first prominent example of this volume-worship, Lars was probably honored.

Do I care?  Mostly, I'm not bothered.  I have heard better music recorded worse.  (See:  Sleater-Kinney's The Woods.)  It is unquestionably fucking loud.  Soundgarden's Superunknown is a record I have long held up as an example of production that deliberately aims to level city blocks, and Death Magnetic makes that sound like a Nick Drake album. 

"That Was Just Your Life"--A disarming, tenuous beginning builds momentum until finally nuking a volcano.  The riff ninety seconds in is basically the main of "Frantic" tamed and surrounded by drums that wouldn't send a wounded ape into a flinging frenzy.  Hetfield is not the beast behind the microphone he once was--that's just the way things go.

A heartbeat is the most complex "simple" thing I can think of.

"The End of the Line"--No mommy issues.  No ill-advised country-western excursions.  Just lotsa ugly.  Richard Kiel and Andre the Giant extreme fuckin' close-ups. 

Gotta love Hetfield and that "Creeping Death" vocal delivery (one word, then a line).  Dude's pushing 88 like Marty McFly but it's 1985 forever in his lion heart.

"Broken, Beat and Scarred"--More awesome unpleasantness.  No-nonsense, stop-start, terse and tense.  The abandonment of randomness was a wise decision.  The sandy production actually helps cloak the questionable angst in a grayer shroud than on St. Anger, and colors influence perception considerably. 

"What doesn't kill ya makes ya more strong" works here, where it would have failed on the last album, because James was allowed multiple vocal takes, thus his voice actually fits with the band playing along with him.  Kirk and Rob apparently provide backing vox, but I'll be damned.

"The Day That Never Comes"--"Fade To Black" with a promise of something on the other side.  I can dig that.  I appreciate the emotion, as it appears to be organic and I didn't even have to squint!

Any piece of art that deals with domestic violence piques my interest.  I judge them less on merit and more within the spectrum of tastefulness.  "The Day That Never Comes" is an overwhelming experience, the promise of a boy-turned-man who will one day free himself and his mother from the fear that's sapped the color from their days.   One day at a time.  One day, in due time.

In due time…I suppose so.  The "what-if" game is so popular, and so pointless.  Forget leaving after the first time, or the first year; if my mother had left my father after putting up with fifteen years of abuse, I still would not have been born.  For a nice aural facsimile of how reflecting upon that makes me feel, enjoy the parasitic riffing that dominates the song's second half.

"All Nightmare Long"--Damn near their happiest riffing in years.  Which goes great with the title.  Big smiles, everybody!  Somebody run up on Kerry King and ask what he thinks about Rick Rubin producing for Metallica!

Shadow marauders out on a mission, wearing Goodwill clothing, bearing hot 16's.  Blackest, sketchiest.

"Cyanide"--Terrible lyrics, but the music races out of the dragon pen.  Call it Volvagia, 'cause it eats Gorons and their hammers of would-be justice.  Once bubbling under, now boiling over.  They never found that guy in Chicago.

"Unforgiven III"--Nine minutes?  Nein!

This is basically The Godfather III of the series. (Convenient!)  The instrumentation and production has been pored over to lend gravitas to what are essentially ridiculous proceedings.  I would have been devastated by Michael Corleone's silent scream upon witnessing his daughter's murder if Sofia Coppola had shown any acting ability at all.  As it is, when the big scene went down, the only thing that upset me is that it wasn't a headshot. 

Likewise, maybe "Unforgiven III" would have had some inspired some response from me other than a piggish snort if Hetfield didn't come off like a whiny, bloated grandpa who has to be super-conscious whenever he farts.  When you sing, and it ends up sounding like Billie Joe Armstrong doing a James Hetfield impersonation, you should stop.  And think about what you're doing.  Especially if you are James Hetfield.  It's that real.

"Judas Kiss"--So metal.  The palm-muting, the fills, the transitions.  Just enjoy.

"Suicide and Redemption"--Their first true instrumental since "Orion" is a ten-minute 101 course not in CPR but in the most vital step of that procedure. 

Grooves in a manner older Metallica never did, or perhaps never considered.  The parts flow into each other with ease, and no individual section overstays its welcome.  It's not that St. Anger lacked artistic self-awareness; it just had too much of the deleterious kind.  This is the kind that works.

During recording, Kirk Hammett brought a picture of late Alice In Chains singer Layne Staley to the studio.  James Hetfield wondered why Staley, and so many of his peers, seemed so drawn to self-destruction and death when they were blessed with the talent to make what would be to most people a "successful" life of renown and financial security.   There are no answers here, or anywhere.  But I would always rather ask "I wonder why?" than "I wonder if…?"

"My Apocalypse"--An undistinguished speed-run that sounds rather Slayer in terms of musical accents, lyrical structure/content, and vocal performance.  (Not the drums, however.  Never the drums.)

I noted earlier on that I could handle the clipping and distortion on Death Magnetic, even though it would be an even better album if it had been treated properly as a piece of music to be sat down with and savored instead of another group of files to transfer onto yet another piece of technology.  "My Apocalypse" is nigh unlistenable.  If the mix throughout is comparable to two fingers up the ass, well here's number three jammed and crammed for ya.  A poor way to finish what is a surprising return to form.



Death Magnetic sold well, making Metallica the first band to see five of their albums to hit the number one spot on Billboard's Top 200.  (Megadeth is close behind, with zero.)  Fiercer, smarter…welcome back, bastards. 

Julie Christie, the Rumors Are True

ST. ANGER
6/5/2003       

In the six years between Reload and St. Anger, Metallica began to fall apart.

1998 saw the release of their second-ever "covers record," Garage Inc., which featured takes on tunes by the likes of Black Sabbath, Mercyful Fate, and Killing Joke, as well as a dreadful version of Thin Lizzy's "Whiskey in the Jar" that, because it was by Metallica, got massive play.  The next year, the band hooked up with the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra for the "concert experience" called S&M.  Not content to de-bone just their classic material with the assistance of over one hundred classical musicians, Metallica composed two brand new songs for this revelatory event.  Stunningly, both of them stank worse than a Cincinnati chili crap.

A new century, new signs of tarnish.

If cooking up a new album seemed far off on the horizon, the guys were still able to converge and cobble together "I Disappear" for the Mission: Impossible 2 soundtrack.  When word reached the Metalli-camp that a demo version of the track had hit radio, they were able to trace a trail back to the peer-to-peer file-sharing service Napster.  Aghast that people were sharing officially-released music, at no cost to them and thus of no profit to the artist, Metallica hired NetPD to monitor Napster for a single weekend.  On April 13, the group filed a lawsuit, alleging copyright infringement and racketeering.  They also presented a list, some 60,000 pages long, naming over 335,000 users guilty of "sharing" Metallica's music.  Their demands were for Napster to remove all Metallica songs from their service and to ban all of those users.  The judge ruled in favor of the band, but in the court of public opinion, their reputation took a massive blow.  Devoted fans felt betrayed and even those who sympathized with the artists assertion that they should be duly paid for their efforts bristled at the direct attacks on specific people.  Not to mention Lars Ulrich posturing in the media as though his band represented an almighty hammer ready to strike the death blow to all thieving geeks on behalf of capitalism. 

Less than a year after this shitshow, bassist Jason Newsted announced his departure from Metallica.  The reasons why became a bit clearer two months after the news first broke, with the appearance on newsstands of Playboy's April 2001 issue.  If the decision to conduct interviews with the members individually was intended to have an internecine effect--mission not only possible, but accomplished.  Kirk and Lars took shots at James for his conservative lifestyle and opinions, while Jason saw fit to bitch out James for cock-blocking his side project Echobrain, demanding absolutely loyalty to the Metallica family.  Basically, the guys used the pages of Playboy to absorb their nagging frustrations.  Something a lot of other guys do too, really.

July 2001, James Hetfield skips off to rehab for his addictions to alcohol and…other stuff.  He returns nine months later, on a strict work schedule.  With tensions simmering and the future uncertain as ever, producer Bob Rock proposed the extemporaneous approach for the next album--he encouraged the guys to "jam out" and not worry themselves sick over "being amazing."  Rock also took over on bass, at least for the studio recording.  They'd still need to find another new guy, hopefully one that their hopefully matured selves wouldn't treat like a ginger stepbrother.

They would also need to work on that maturity thing!  Enter "performance-enhancing coach" Phil Towne (for only 40 grand a month!) and documentary filmmakers Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky.  Exit common sense. 

The whole group is credited as songwriters (including Bob Rock).  Communal creation will bring back that family vibe!  But a democracy?  No, Metallica are never that.  There are no solos anywhere on the album, at the behest of James and Lars but not the man who normally plays them.  Lars argued that if the new album was to signal a new age for Metallica, the hoary tricks of the past (like solos) should be abandoned.  Kirk argued that omitting them would make the band sound like trend-chasers.  Guess who won?

Another outdated musical standby Lars saw fit to jettison from the arsenal:  turning on the snare drums.  This unorthodox decision proved a bit unpopular with listeners, as the resulting ringing sound from a struck snare can drive a person to autoerotic asphyxiation while forgetting the "erotic" part. 


This is what happens when you order your Metallica "guerilla style."

"Frantic"--Risk and St. Anger are the two shittiest Big 4 albums, but what puts St. Anger a step above (below?) are the literally dozens of moments that cause the chair a person is sitting in to break and send them falling to the floor as they listen. 

The first few seconds of "Frantic" are the perfect encapsulation of everything wrong with the album.  Riff played by people wearing ill-fitting gloves caked in mud.  Smack on an aluminum trash can lid.  Oh fuck no, ho, put your clothes back on and go. 

"You live it or lie it!  My lifestyle!  Determines my death style!"

That's never going to cease being hilarious.  Those lyrics are like an anti-meme.

"Frantic-tick-tick-tock!"

Looked cleverer on paper.

BASH BASH OOF
BASH BASH OOF

Six minutes of this insufferable jammy thing?  I'd rather watch my grandparents smoke crack.

"St. Anger"--Wherein some assholes jack the main from Korn's "Blind" and say, "Let's build on it." 

Seven minutes.  Y'know, sometimes sex goes on a bit too long.  Things become raw.  Ooh baby I don't like the chafing.  No matter how into it you are, no matter how caught up the moment has you…you gotta know when to breathe and stop.  For real.

Dual James on the chorus!  I'm so impacted by the force of his integrity.  The references to "Hit the Lights" and "Damage Inc." lead me to think James is telling us that music is the real religion in his life.  Like God might exist, and he might be chill, but does he even listen to Skynyrd?  Does he know how to count the points on a buck?  Has Waylon Jennings ever told God a really cool story about getting eye-fucked by someone asleep in their car?

Another toothless wonder (also the sobriquet of a hooker who lives two buildings over from me) that won a goddamn Grammy, no doubt due to the devastating climax (double-bass-AH!) that hears Hetfield proclaiming "I'm madly in anger with you!" over and over. 

Would it have killed them to put some gating on the metal chair?

"Some Kind of Monster"--You have a monster here?  I am here to kill your monster!

When I call this track "fire," I do not mean in the hip hop parlance.  I mean it eats up all the oxygen in the room.  So even if you can't manage to escape, at least you'll die before it finishes. 

Funny I bring up hip hop, given Hetfield's semi-rapping.  Gah.  "Nu-metal" is just metal missing the lower half of its body.  Never forget.

"Dirty Window"--These drums are what a serial killer's victim hears as the last few seconds of life ebb away.  Whether they fell to the gun, the knife, the rope, the chain, the wrench, the hammer or the hands--"This house is clean, baby."

At some point, Hetfield just commences with shouting words that rhyme.  How much of his larynx needs crushing?

"Invisible Kid"--Even the singer from Stain'd found this overly earnest.

Five songs in, I am no longer able to discriminate good from bad, helpful from harmful.  I just ate a quarter. 

James aims to evoke naked fear while surrounded by all the emperor's henchmen.  Guess what, download generation?  Metallica thinks Metallica are super-rich and out-of-touch too!  Madly in anger with invisibility!

Oh, Metallica.  Y'all and me need to discuss some things.  Y'all just ran up into my domicile wearing nothing but a backpack full of random shit.  I have neighbors, you self-absorbed nitwits.

"My World"--Strum-strum-STRUM!  Let it ring, baby.  Like…freedom!  No, I mean let the chord ring, not the snare drum!  You unrepentant shit-vats. 

I ain't your mama, kid, but I can tell you this:  it's raining in your room because all those years of chucking drained beer bottles at the ceiling have chipped away at the material and created openings for the elements to invade your space.  Further, while it may seem like you are the only one whom the rain is drenching, you gotta realize, honey--you are not the only one.  I have walking pneumonia right now. 

Now that I have explained some things to you, little Jimmy, perhaps you can enlighten me.  Why are all these songs so long?  What?  They're stretching out in the studio?  They're taking it back like Stretch Armstrong?  Stretch Armstrong had a weak heart!  He had no heart!  He was a doll!

Fuck you, Mego Elastic Metal Band.  I don't want your world.  You put ten riffs in a song, four of which are identical, and all of them about as interesting as a book on the history of boiling water. Back in the Eighties, James woulda tossed any of them into a garbage can filled with crushed cans, Chinese food containers and splutzed-on centerfolds.  But this is the new, invigorated Metallica!  You haven't heard?  They got the chocolate, the marshmallow creme, and they brought the heat!  Let's make some fuckin' s'mores we just need the…wait, no!  The graham crackers are soggy.  The graham crackers are soggy.  Oh, foul the cursed thing!  What demon from the depths of hell created thee?

Yet another Big 4 band is half-assing it and calling it "experimentation."  You can suck my dick as soon as I strap it on, okay?

"Shoot Me Again"--Now the drums sound like a broken pogo stick.  James Hetfield seems really proud of that voice.

A "fuck you" to "the haters" who don't seem to realize that a foolish consistency is the hogoblin of oh go fuck yourselves.  Does it truly count if the victim gets popped with their own gun?  Static-X went harder in the paint than this. 

"Sweet Amber"--Muddy-ass blues-rock that bores me to sociopathy.  Ambien is pretty sweet, too.  Makes you fall asleep standing up.  Then you wake up and find out you just gnawed all your fingernails down to the quick. 

"The Unnamed Feeling"--This one's as awesome as having itchy tits.  Another pastiche of ideas that are either undeveloped or underdeveloped.  "Can you help me uncrazy?"  Can you?!

CHUGGA CHUGGA SCRAPE SCRAPE
BASH BASH CRASH KICK KICK BASH
MY PAAAINNNN UHHHH!

Oh walk it off on the second floor of your mansion, dude.  If you're not at the mansion, then just put some hundreds on it.

"Purify"--I have a condition known as "drum-dread."  If I ever hear the clatter of organ pipes hitting pavement, I may never recover.

"All Within My Hands"--Inconsistent volume on the drums is the least-pressing of all the issues confronting St. Anger's final song. 

Clearly, "All Within" means a great deal to Mr. Hetfield; his caterwauling is among the most heartfelt I've ever grimaced through.  His attempts to embody ruthlessness reverberate in my humerus. 

The guitar parts as written suck enough without being panned like they're at the center of a custody dispute.  Congrats, Metallica.  Each and every song on here elicits exasperation. 



People complained about St. Anger's mix, for a legitimate reason:  said mix was handled by a five-year-old suffering post concussion syndrome. 

People complained about James Hetfield's vocal performance on St. Anger for a legitimate reason:  his range starts at defecating lion and peaks at climaxing stray cat. 

People complained about Lars Ulrich's drum sound on St. Anger for a legitimate reason that I already addressed in the introductory piece because it's one of the most legendarily poor decisions made in the history of recorded music. 

But!

Even if a clear-headed adult had been seated at the mixing board…even if James Hetfield had convinced Bob Rock that multiple vocal takes would not spell the end of Metallica…even if Lars Ulrich had decided to beat on an actual drum kit instead of a steel ladder…even if Kirk Hammett had added a solo on every song…St. Anger would still be cherry-red butt cheeks.  Sure, the competition between it and Risk for the brown crown would be closer, with these changes…but we're still talking about two terrible albums full of thin, watery metal for middle-aged motorcycle marauders and their moronic "mamas." 

Yes, it has its fans, but St. Anger's reputation as a hideous album is well-deserved.  Score one for conventional wisdom.



No way I'm leaving without talking a bit about the documentary.  No.  Way.

Some Kind of Monster is the justification for St. Anger's existence, a two-and-a-half hour long endoscopy that reveals alarming narrowing and swelling.  In addition to struggling with their artistic raison d'être and slogging through endless therapy sessions, the band members are seen away from the studio as well, selling art for millions and attending ballet recitals.   Dave Mustaine comes by to whine, bassists are auditioned, prisoners are entertained, James Hetfield does an impromptu "Rock Lobster"--how did this shit not win an Oscar? 

Torben Ulrich!  How did I almost forget Lars' dad?  Amazing.  Why they never developed a "Torben Check" for writers is beyond me.  When finished typing up a piece, just click the bearded icon. It scans your text, highlights certain words and passages and when you press on them you hear, "I would say delete that." 

You can live without hearing a second of St. Anger, but you cannot be said to have lived a full life without devouring Some Kind of Monster including all the deleted scenes featured on the DVD.  I personally guarantee you will not regret watching driftless old men say "fuck" a lot while probing their souls with the help of some dork in a Cosby sweater.  Then just marvel at what the passage of time and the presence of money can do to a person. 

More of What You Came To Kill

RELOAD
11/14/1997

So, what we have here is essentially the second half of Load.  The boys even called upon Andres Serrano once more for the cover, and he supplied "Piss and Blood" to over four million customers in the U.S. alone.

Hardcore metalheads were undaunted in their continued dismissal of modern Metallica, and there was even some indulgence in revisionist history:  "Metallica were NEVER as great as everybody said.  Slayer/Megadeth/Exodus were better.  Master of Puppets is overrated."  It reeked of a break-up wrought with denial.

No amount of Load-ing can ever tarnish Metallica's 80s legacy.  Even if at times it sounded like the fellas were up to the challenge.

"Fuel"--Gimme FU
             Gimme FAH
             Gimme DAHWAHEYEDAHZYE
             OOOOOHHHHH!

"Motorbreath" for old dudes.  Never fails to remind me of the time Hetfield took one wrong step onstage and ended up a crispy critter.  So in addition to the need for speed, dude has a jones for flame.

Like all brats, "Fuel" needs a hearty smack upside the head before it sets anymore pets on fire.  What is easily the most blistering musical track on Reload is out-out trashed by Hetfield's halitosis (although the JH Soundboard would not be the glorious beast it is without this song).  That said, James the Very Loud and Rebellious Lion gives me the giggles each time I listen.  I will take humor (intentional and unintentional) anywhere I can get it with 90s Metallica.

"The Memory Remains"--Two songs in, two songs where the chorus appears before the first verse.   (Also, two meta-refs in this 'un; spot 'em.)

The lyrics are quite well-written, and so effectively encapsulate the fade of fame, that the rote bedrock is forgivable.  The big deal with "Memory Remains," then as now, is the cameo by Marianne Faithfull, legendary vocalist/Rolling Stones muse/hardcore drug addict/candy bar aficionado.  She brings a stirring Whatever Happened To Baby Jane? air to the plodding proceedings, chilling spines and raising hairs just by croaking out the syllables the "little tin goddess" uses solely to communicate in her twilight years.  Both Marianne and Metallica deserve kudos for artistic bravery.

Those of you who remember when Reload was released may recall certain of the fanbase not cottoning to the presence of a female vocal on a Metallica track, prompting cries of "Who the fuck is this old bitch?"  Which isn't an unfair question.  Crude, yes, but hardly unfair.

It's no fatal flaw to not immediately know who Marianne Faithfull is, but it is a massive disservice to not do the minimum amount of research that would satisfy your curiosity.  You may still cringe at her vocals no matter how venerated she is within the industry after five decades, but you would at least know that she is a figure deserving of massive respect, and not some crazy cat lady Kirk Hammett felt misguided sympathy for.

"Devil's Dance"--No one was surprised more than big young me to discover that a song titled "Devil's Dance" turned out interesting.  In the way that White Castle burgers are interesting…but still. 

The devil evoked herein sounds more in line with the 'Bub on the cover of Satan is Real than the li'l fella on the cover of Hell Without Hell, but honestly, what band can you envision performing in front of exploding rocks more vividly than Metallica? 

"Take the chance/Let's dance."  And make romance?  No.  This is strictly flesh-slap promenade.  These faux-lascivious lyrics aren't as quease-inducing as you might fear from the pen of an admitted recovering sex addict, so take that, Mustaine.

"Unforgiven II"--Starts off like the original, then just drops to its knees and proceeds towards a simple man's decay.  About as much need for this sequel as for a Patton Oswalt porno.

Clearly "Memory Remains" was a lyrical anomaly:  "If you can understand the me, then I can understand the you"; "Lay beside me/This won't hurt, I swear."  The protagonists beseeching for prostration is the epitome of creepy, and the fact I have had to listen to this song multiple times means none of my dreams will ever come true.  So I basically am curled up in a ball in a corner of the bedroom, shivering, waiting for my heart to decide it's had enough already.

"Better Than You"--Things provably better than this song--

--A bowl of moldy tapioca pudding
--Deep-fried baby feet
--Getting your brain pierced by jaguar teeth
--Waiting for a Greyhound bus anywhere in North America

This track won a Grammy.  Which is fitting, really.  Considering that "buried alive" and "brained by a golden gramophone award" are the only two causes of death that aren't better than listening to "Better Than You."

"Slither"--Hetfield hates this one.  He should.  This sibilant mess is doubtless responsible for 34% of the inner turmoil that plagued him at the time.  Puts me in mind of a Hognose fantasizing about being an Eastern Brown.

Don't shed your skin and try to sell it top dollar, dudes.

"Carpe Diem Baby"--I'm iffy on any song recorded after 1969 that dares cap its title with the word "baby."  But when said honorific is preceded by a Latin phrase?

James Hetfield used to be the King of the Killer Riff.  But on Reload, he's firmly entrenched as the Prince of the Tepid Riff.  Make no mistake, his muse is comatose ("Suck the day"?  Your translator sucks the day.  All 24 hours, baby.)  Is he weary, or just soft?  Who can tell.  It's worthy to note that Hetfield has the phrase tattooed on his left arm, a permanent reminder to never spend more time fapping than is absolutely necessary.  (I'm sure no one is more thankful than James that he waited till he was a bit older to get ink; not hard to envision a baby-faced Hetfield stumbling drunk and belligerent into a tattoo parlor, demanding to get "Corripe Cervisiam" on his belly.)

"Bad Seed"--"Yeah/Ohhh yeah."

Akin to guzzling down a still-swirling mixture of anti-freeze and aspertif.  I've been more titillated watching a potato sack race.

"Where the Wild Things Are"--My favorite chorus on the album…hell, it might be my favorite moment on the album, that hook is so embedded so deeply in my neck.  Seven tasteful minutes, with treasures in the crevices.  Literally to the Max. 

"Prince Charming"--Son of King Nothing; apple don't fall too terribly far.  James loves telling us what he is in relation to us.  Here, he is a "dirty, dirty whore."  Somewhere on this Earth live people who care what the songs on Reload are about and all I can say to that is "Bless their little pea-pickin' hearts."

Also bless you Kirk Hammett.  Don't you ever stop being dandy, showing us your wah pedals.  He has all the unconditional love for his Cry Baby that a giant panda mama does for its cubs.

"Low Man's Lyric"--OH NO.  Within, is violin.  Within, is hurdy gurdy.  Within, is the Bon Jovi/Kid Rock collabo a good two years before the rock community at large was exposed to Bob Ritchie, back in the days when he was content to produce shitty underground hip hop.

"Attitude"--Yeah, the radar blipped and bleeped in bits here.  Someone grab James a Snickers. 

"Why cure the fever/Whatever happened to sweat?"  That's the hook! 

There is a well-settled-into groove to be found here, but it's real white, you know.  Like extra-white.

"Fixxxer"--Given the intro piece, it's only fitting that the word "voodoo" appears in the first spoken line. There are some cool string conjurings happening but honestly, this is the last song, and I'm only so impressed by this point on any record.  If Metallica are still capable of sustaining greatness over an eight minute stretch, they were keeping said skill well-hidden in the late 90s. 




Reload suggested a band possibly beyond repair.  Back-to-back bland offerings?  Had excessive successes dulled the once-mighty Metallica for good, changing renegade innovators into static generators?

Of course these were/are subjective wonderings.  Reload was indeed the end of an era.  But in true bloated Metalli-fashion, it took four years for anyone to realize that.

Fight the Fans That Need You

LOAD
6/4/1996

In the five years between the Black Album and Load, Metallica cemented their reputation as the most famed heavy band on the planet.  No member embraced the role of "asshole rock star" like Lars Ulrich.  The cocaine, the mingling with all the beautiful people, the white leather jacket--he put that shit in a bear hug.  Make no mistake, if it wasn't precisely his destiny to be metal's greatest drummer, it was his destiny to be its greatest self-promoter.

It wasn't all wine and roses, though.  In the summer of 1992, as the two bands were terrorizing North America, whiny Guns 'N' Roses frontman Axl Rose turned a mere Three Mile Island into a Chernobyl when he bailed early during a gig at Montreal's Olympic Stadium.  The heavy metal hockey fans were already roiling over Metallica's set being cut short thanks to James Hetfield forgetting where the onstage pyrotechnics were located, so Axl's tantrum was all they needed to go crazy.  They began by tearing shit up inside the venue, before moving on to tear shit up outside the venue.  Somehow, local authorities were able to quash the mob without the aid of a hang-gliding, megaphone-wielding Maurice Richard.

For the second time in their career, Metallica found themselves looking to guitar tech John Marshall to fill in for an injured James Hetfield as the shows went on and on.  You can't deny that Metallica love the music.

But you can deny the music.



New logo?  Check.  Pretentious photography in the booklet?  Corbijn.  Partial printed lyrics a la Nevermind?  Yep.  The Black Album reigned for one year before grunge took over.  Suddenly, affecting all those classic rock poses and acting as though you enjoyed anything about playing music for a living was deemed gauche.  Metallica were supposed to represent for their genre, and brook no bullshit.  (Nirvana, in fact, were invited to play on that mega-tour with Metallica and GNR; Kurt Cobain faxed management a list of the top five cancers he'd rather be diagnosed with.)  They responded with their least-thrash album to date.

Now…change is not inherently bad.  Change is not inherently good.  Change can invigorate.  Change can enervate.  TV Smith once said, "New ways are best."  Bob Seger yearned for "that old time rock and roll." 

The joys are in the details.

You're not going to spread the same flavor of jelly on your english muffin for every single breakfast, are you?  Will you even have a muffin for every single breakfast?  Can you say with certainty that a bagel won't make its way into the mix at some point?

Metallica's makeover was vital, ill-advised, or "faggy," depending on who you were listening to.  The short hair, the suits sans ties, the makeup, the "Lars and Kirk kissing" photos.  James Hetfield wasn't too keen on the whole new direction, but decided that his bandmates were acting "homo" just to get his goat, so protesting any louder would probably result in onstage handjobs during the upcoming tours.  (This is truly a game without winners; James is a homophobic douchefuck; Lars and Kirk come off like people who share a love of cocaine and a compulsive need to fit their bones into as many different skins as they can manage before the inexorable passage of time disintegrates them to dust.  It's like Bono managed to split himself into two people, fer Chrissake.)

Really, the best thing about this overhaul was the album cover, Andres Serrano's "Semen and Blood III."  Yep, dude took the liquids of life and smeared 'em on some Plexiglass, and a veteran heavy metal band took one look and said, "This is exactly the piece of art we need to stir up faux-outrage and maintain relevancy with the kids!"

You may be wondering what Jason Newsted thought of all this.  Apparently not much, since his bass lines were audible for the second straight album.

"Ain't My Bitch"--With a title dumb as the content of any random YouTube video on the Illuminati, I'm borderline ashamed to admit I like this song, and I like it quite a bit--open-ended, weak-pulsed lyrics notwithstanding.  This is fiercely uncomplicated, in the style of the Black Album's better songs.  The chorus has some luminous ringing chords and some sixteenth-notes even squeeze their way in (enjoy those, by the way, 'cause they are the closest Load comes to thrash, which rhymes with past, and that is not a place Metallica wants to be.  No ma'am).

"2 X 4"--You know who really digs shit like this?  Rolling Stone magazine.  They love metal when the balls swing to the left, but not to the right.

"Talk to two by four!"  Fuck off.  Talk to sheet of glass, Omen-style.

"The House That Jack Built"--Large rooms decorated with ugly pictures depicting scenes from reality and beyond, hung crooked on the walls.  Spacious bathrooms with broken toiletries.  Incidental carpeting throughout.  Homemade pool and swingset out back.  I'd buy it at foreclosure.

"Until It Sleeps"--Load's first single made many fans cry BETRAYAL.  I've never been offended by this one, because it's not spectacular enough to justify a strong reaction.  It's undercooked spaghetti Western for the verse SMASH CUT stock metal chorus.  Hetfield's vocals mesh well with the guitar tones, but delicate harmonizing was not what fans were anticipating, nor is it anything Metallica excels at.

The video did ever more damage:  Lars with eyeliner and a feather boa.  Christ a'mighty.  I don't mind a man rocking eyeliner and/or a feather boa.  Just make sure you rock them well.  'Cause somebody's gonna be watching you.  But...you knew that when you put 'em on.

"King Nothing"--The cicadas.  My God, the cicadas.  Then the snarling starts and I beg for their return.  But no.  They are already in Florida.  They should not have gone alone.

"Hero of the Day"--Becoming a millionaire stripped James Hetfield of his ability to repress his mommy issues.  Another example of "Feeltallica" ("Nothing Else Matters" was the first) but a rare non-terrible example.  There's some decent sonic shading visible here. 

"Bleeding Me"--Ooh does this get the excretory organs rumbling. 

I'm listening to
I'm listening to this album
I'm listening to this album under duress

"Cure"--'Tis rare to discover so many ungiven fucks piled up in one place.  I fear soon the fire marshal shall be summoned!

"Poor Twisted Me"--Bleeding, now twisted.  Sucks to be…me?  Except the me is you here.  And the you is they.  And they are testing their audience's loyalty.  You know what this is?  A ZZ Top cover band featuring Billy Gibbons' second cousin.

"Wasting My Hate"--James wrote this after story time with Waylon Jennings.  One day the Highwayman walked into a diner and grabbed a table by the window.  Before too long he noticed a dude sitting in car parked out in front of the diner, giving him a righteous eye-fuck.  Naturally, Waylon didn't take too kindly to such blatant disrespect, and gave good as he got.  When a certain amount of time passed, well, a man's got his limits.  So Waylon got up and went outside to confront the man in the car.  Who was asleep.

As Waylon told James, he'd been "wasting his hate." 

"Mama Said"--A ballad (goddamnit again!)  so country that I smell nothing but scrapple.  Would've definitely advised using a vocal take that didn't give off even the slightest suggestion that James is singing about a woman he had intimate relations with.  As I said earlier in this series, incest ain't the move to make.

"Thorn Within"--My art!  My life!  Makes me suffer!  I AM!  Torn!  Yeaaa-yeah-uh!

Don't steal from "Sex Type Thing"(which itself stole from "War Machine"), add a little "of your genre" fillip, right on the heels of your country-blues "Oh I am a troubled troubadour let me sing my song" nimcompoopery and expect me not to notice.  Be a thrash band, be a metal band, be just a straight up rock band, be a blues band, but be a consistent and coherent band above all, you colossal pricks.

"Ronnie"--The Nebraskan fields extend far beyond the limits of human vision here.  It's like…Lynyrd Skynyrd wrote "Seek and Destroy."  Johnnie Van Zant-era Lynyrd Skynyrd. 

The cornpone-narrator schtick is unbearable (non-Southerners attempting what they imagine to be a "general" regional accent elevates my blood pressure faster than eating a deep-fried stick of butter).  "Ronnie" has as much business on a Metallica album as I do on a runway during Fashion Week.  Possibly their worst song. 

"The Outlaw Torn"--Why eleven minutes?  Why long stretches of just James and Lars doing their thing?


That title.  That cover.  They craved the storm.  At the first claps of thunder, they peed their leather pants.  And for as much as non-fans of Load like myself yak on about how underwhelmed we were (and still are), millions of people still bought it, and there are no shortage of fans willing to expound on what they perceive to be its multitude of positive qualities.  So was it really, in the main, an artistic failure? 

Well it wasn't a rampaging artistic success, I can tell you that.  80% of Load is 100% ass.  The other 20%, in retrospect, was talent and taste refusing to go gentle into that good night.  And they intended for this to be a double album.  Sweet Christ on a cracker.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

METALLICA
8/12/91
(The album so poisonous that just creating it ended three marriages!)

With the so-called "Black Album," Metallica penetrated the enchanted realm of mainstream adoration and reaped the attendant benefits with all the relish four still-young hot-blooded males could muster.  Sixteen million sold in their home country, thirty million worldwide.  Metallica is the first demarcation between the band and their original fanbase.

At least you can hear the bass!

"Enter Sandman"--Their most famous song, whether you want it to be or not.

Don't fool yourselves, Metallica yearned to be rock gods from week one.  They wanted those all-access passes to the world.  You don't acquire those passes by selling a few hundred thousand records and playing the same thousand-capacity venues every tour.  You get it by offering tasty bait for the potential listener to bite down upon.  The listener who likes heavy music, but clean heavy music, with a polish so keen it gleams.  Metallica wanted those people, and their monies, and with "Enter Sandman" they got 'em.  Got 'em like an Alligator Snapping Turtle gets fish.

Fuck it.  This is still a fantastic song.  "Enter Sandman" makes me proud to be a fan of heavy metal.  Immaculately structured, wonderfully executed, so evil and addictive it might as well have been released by Cadbury.  Those guitars are the perfect tone for rock radio.  Lars is already past his prime, but damned if doesn't beat the tom like Aunt Polly.  It's not the band's fault idiots fell in love with their song.

I'm sure many hardcores had their stomachs plummet to their feet when they began hearing "Sandman" everywhere and realized that ubiquity is truly the enemy.  Now everyone knows their secret!  Aww. But no fan, no matter how many shirts or bootlegs they boasted in their collection, could know the agony of Dave Mustaine.  By the fifth note, that guy knew he was destined to be number two for all eternity.  He'd sell millions on his own merits, and it just wouldn't fucking matter.  Because Metallica.  Of course he dealt with his frustration and jealousy like a champ, claiming that his former band ripped off "Sandman"'s iconic riff from Excel's "Tapping Into An Emotional Void," which had been released just two years earlier.  There is an undeniable similarity…but there are also a finite number of notes and chords for musicians to utilize in the creative process.  More striking to me is how some people cannot let go of the past, even though they've achieved their own great success.

"Sad But True"--Now this?  Is overrated.  I'll blast "Sandman" any day.  "Sad But True" comes on, I'm like, "Next song!"  Everything reeks of effort and stale beer.  The drone-y chorus is cool, but again, I so rarely even make it to that point. 

On a related note, Kid Rock sucks more than burnt cinnamon rolls. 

"Holier Than Thou"--Oh God, the production.  With any testiculation, those guitars would sound fit to break brick.  Instead they come off like Harry and Ron's first attempt at entering Platform 9 3/4 at Kings Cross.  Great job, Bob Rock. 

Brook no quarter!  Suffer no fools!  Willy no nilly!  Post no bills!

"The Unforgiven"--The first of two ballads, and the only one that doesn't cause my face to swell up and my throat to constrict. 

I still get baby goosebumps listening to this tender tale of one man's bitterly defiant stand.  Hetfield's crooning is easy to poke at, but that's a disingenuous reaction.  Yes, someone bemoaning their fate can be crazy annoying.  But we're all prone to fits of dramatics.  So as much as I want to snort, roll my eyes, and bust out a crappy imitation, I just can't.  "You label me/I label you/So I dub thee Unforgiven."  Ohh, you fucker, I can't hate this.

"Wherever I May Roam"--A sitar-sprinkled ode to the touring life.  Metallica play, like, a lot of live shows.

When Bob Rock compared Hetfield's lyrics to the likes of Dylan, Lennon and Marley, he had one stanza in mind:

And the road becomes my bride
I have stripped of all but pride 
So in her I do confide
And she keeps me satisfied

Nothing about this one evokes a obscenely-lit backstage area overflowing with drugs, alcohol and girls who look 16 going on whore.  Pass.

"Don't Tread On Me"--The intro sounds like "The Shortest Straw" fighting off other songs.

Given that the band's last album was an unrepentantly critical look at the United States government, this jingoistic nut-grab is somewhat surprising.  But then I remember…it's bad when the government treats us poorly.  However, if those very same corrupt assholes wanna rain down death and pain on some other country?  LOVE IT OR KICK ROCKS, MUTHAFUCKAS!

America vs. The World is like Jets vs. Sharks:  as long as Rita Moreno is around, everyone is winning.

"Through the Never"--Metallica get universal--literally.  Less excavated insight and more unshredded common sense, but that's pretty much to be expected.  The chorus is so gloriously arrogant.  There's a moment that Hetfield and band are one, it's brief, but it stings.  It vibrates.  It lingers.

"Nothing Else Matters"--I forever judge dudes who rung up their local rock radio station to dedicate this song to their especial ladies.  Even if they regret their actions sincerely some twenty years later.

People in love can write great love songs.  This is not a revelation.   "Maybe I'm Amazed," for Christ's fucking sake!  If you can listen to McCartney and not feel awe…then I guess you have a different opinion than me.  That's cool.  And I'm just using that one song as a superlative example.  Any genre of music can boast numerous engaging love songs, even if they turn out a bit twisted or dark.  Love is love, as they say.

Metallica gave us a straightforward romantic ballad that is as soft as Kirby sleeping on a bed made out of marshmallows.  James Hetfield is so earnest, his emotions laid so bare, his singing so making me want to introduce strychnine into my diet.  He is so into this woman, the way she has impacted his world so…impactfully, that he straight-up kicked Kirk Hammett in the face and said, "I'm doin' the solo on this one baby, yeah-yeaaah!"

All due credit for taking a chance.   All due blame for blowing that chance.  You will find me nom-nom'ing a bowl of rotted squash before you ever find me listening to "Nothing Else Matters."

….

And the woman he wrote it for isn't even the one he ended up marrying and having a quarter-dozen kids with!  Also yeah, all the stuff in the lyrics about "open minds" and the importance of "trust" is super-rich coming from a homophobe with a history of philandering. 

"Of Wolf and Man"--"I hunt/Therefore I am."

The very same words inked on Ted Nugent's left buttock, circling a deer head.

When it comes to songs that feature "Wolf" in the title, you're not going to top Duran Duran, so don't bother.  "Of Pig and Man."  Now that's fucking adamantium. 

"The God That Failed"--One constant on the album are these nonsensical solos that start from absolutely nowhere.  Kirk, my dear, you are letting down the team.

Hetfield's continuing story of the pain and abandonment he felt over his mother's unnatural death. The son is bitter as ever, but now moreso at Great Sky Man.  The music remains stoic, lest he begin cracking and crying. 

"My Friend of Misery"--The lessons are as follows:

Think--but not too much.
Fight--battles, not wars.
Write songs--four minutes long, not six

"The Struggle Within"--A high-energy Justice throwaway, but it contains one of the few sweet 'n' tasty solos to be savored on the whole album.  The chorus is so good that it becomes self-conscious halfway through and sabotages itself.  Very underrated track in their discog.



Metallica's first sell-out disc is….pretty good (though there are clear indicators that simplifying and streamlining their sound will make for much worse music in the future).  Kirk Hammett's solos are mostly devoid of ingenuity.  When it comes to great metal drummers, Lars Ulrich has officially dropped out of the discussion.  Hetfield's syllable-stretching epitomizes metal, as does his rhythm work.  Jason Newsted…was actually discernible in the mix.   It's tempting to overrate Metallica through retrospective goggles, but I resist.

Just remember, guys:  "If you can't handle Slayer, listen to Metallica."

A Dream Interred

…AND JUSTICE FOR ALL
8/25/88

September 26, 1986.  Metallica is set to play a gig in Stockholm, Sweden, but this will not be just any regular show.  Exactly two months earlier, James Hetfield broke his left arm while skateboarding.  Instead of canceling their forthcoming tour dates, the band simply had tech John Marshall take over rhythm guitar duties live while James sang.  But the Swedes are in a for a treat; James' cast is off, and they are going to enjoy a true Metallica live experience. 

Feeling rejuvenated after the show, the band (along with three roadies and a manager) pack into a rickety tour bus.  More concerts, more fans, await.

Master of Puppets is not far off from a gold certification in their home country, and it turns out Europe can't get enough of the Metallica machine either.  Their concerts are consistently packed with rabid fans ready and willing to hurtle their bodies and scream along.  Their manager recently informed the guys that they could now buy their own houses.  Just off this loud-fast shit?  Whoa.  Cliff Burton, the member most prone to intense bouts of homesickness, couldn't wait to get a place for himself and his girlfriend.  Of course he was going to look out for his parents too, they had done so much, were so supportive of his dreams. 

September 27, 1986.  The bus is now passing through Dorarp, Sweden.  It's a cold morning, with the sun not yet ready to make its appearance.  All in good time.  Alone on the road, the vehicle begins to drift.  The driver overcorrects, causing the wheels to lock.  The rear end of the bus swings out to its right, and skids off the road.  When it finally stops, momentum sends it over onto its right side. 

Within several minutes, one roadie, one driver and three band members are standing out in the bitter cold, still half in the clutches of sleep, wondering what the hell just happened.  (Their tour manager is still inside, helping free two roadies who'd become trapped under collapsed bunks during the accident.) James Hetfield seems to be the most aware and active of the men, and it is he who spots the pair of legs sticking out from underneath the bus.  They belong to Cliff Burton. 

The bitter cold and intense shock might be the only reasons the driver isn't murdered on the spot.  He claims that the bus hit a patch of black ice; James thinks he smells alcohol on the man's breath.  Enraged, he goes stomping up and down the road--there's no goddamn black ice.  A glance at the meteorological records reveal that circumstances would not be favorable for its formation on the road, anyway.   

What's important is getting that bus off Cliff.  He could still be alive, right?  Just get that goddamn thing off and then the medics can try some CPR and maybe he'll pull through.  Maybe he has a chance!  Stranger things have happened, right?

And on that day a stranger thing did happen, something so grotesquely tragic it would appear right at home in a Joseph Heller novel.  A crane arrived and began to lift the bus up.  Before the body of Cliff Burton could be tended to, however, a cable snapped and sent the bus back down onto the fallen young man. 

Cliff Burton never had a chance at all.  He was only 24 years old.

Without their bell-bottom-rocking, REM-loving gem of a bassist, the Metallica machine faced its first real threat.  A more reflective group of men might have--should have?--taken time off to reconcile their feelings.  Instead, they began to audition new bassists. 



Per 1987's tribute extravaganza, Garage Days Re-Revisited, he was "Master J. Newkid."  In reality, he was Jason Newsted, former bassist/lyricist for Phoenix metal band Flotsam and Jetsam.  As an unabashed Metallica fanboy, being selected to fill his idol's shoes was equivalent to several dreams coming true at once.  Unfortunately his bandmates were still grieving their fallen comrade, and more than willing to take their pain out on the new kid.  There was that time they convinced him to gulp down a spoonful of wasabi.  Then those other times they tossed his valuables out of a hotel window.  Poor kid got stuck with the bill a lot.  Did they ever send an obese hooker to his room?  I'm sure they did. 

But that pales in comparison to what they did when it came to the music, man.

Producer Flemming Rasmussen claims he was told by Lars Ulrich to "take the bass down so you can just hear it, and then take it down a further 3 dbs."  Jason himself has attested that his bass lines followed Hetfield's rhythm parts so closely they virtually blended together.  Hetfield, for his part, told an interviewer that the bass was "obscured" by his guitar tones, which ate up lower frequencies like a mulleted Pac-Man.

Thanks to Rock Band and Guitar Hero, each of which devoted whole games to the music of Metallica, you can hear Jason's bass tracks for five of Justice's nine songs.  Which to me is great; he's a hell of a player and deserves to have his hard work appreciated.

That said…a big reason I rate …And Justice For All as my favorite Metallica album is the dry, brittle production.  The lack of audible bass, the clicking drums, I mean the whole shebang sounds like it was julienned after recording.  Throw in some bitter polemic and I can't imagine enjoying this notorious Grammy loser any other way.

AKA…NO REMASTER PLEASE.  Most remasters make sense, but in this case Metallica would be Lucas-ing.  All artists should avoid Lucas-ing.

"Blackened"--Instead of writing about their personal turmoil, James and Lars looked outward and found inspiration in the world's turmoil.  The theme here is nuclear war, although repeated references to "Mother Earth" could mislead a listener into believing it's about the deteriorating environment. 

The third--and final--world-beating introduction of Metallica's history can be heard here, with some magnificently eerie backwards guitar providing the requiem for a world.  Think the Earth would ever disintegrate so thoroughly that the remains would fit into a simple handmade casket?  Who'd be the pallbearers?  Who'd attend the funeral?  If the bell tolls, and no one is around to hear it….

James Hetfield is so goddamn angry for this entire album.  Not pissed off.  Righteously fucking angry.  These were the days he could yell "FIRE!" in a song and not sound like a self-parody.

"Never" is the key word here.  The world has been seared black and blue and it reeks.  Yep, the world is ahi tuna.  Sigh.  They tried to warn us. 

Just after four minutes, the guitars sound so mournful I can barely take it.  They chin up after a bit, but just that glimpse of vulnerability….

"…And Justice For All"--Want to make a decent song that runs nine and a half minutes long?  Just write a hodgepodge of decent riffs and play them well, one after the other, there and back again.  See how long the listener can watch you work at untangling knots before thrusting a pair of scissors in your face.

Hours of watching CNN helped James realize that money is power is corruption is bad.  I know I might come off a tad snarky here, but I don't mean to.  His lament on the death of American justice is heartfelt enough, if disheartening for the lack of solutions it offers.  ("Nothing can save us.")  But what is the solution?  Rob the rich?

At worst, "Justice" comes off like a filibuster (think Thurmond, not Davis).  At best, this is thoughtful metal that still hits with helmets off.

Have to note Lars.  One of my favorite parts of his starts at 1:12, and all he's doing is foreshadowing the main riff on some "My big brother's gonna be here soon and he's gonna beat your ass!"

"Eye of the Beholder"--Many people seem to not understand what precisely the First Amendment to the Bill of Rights protects American citizens from.  I am not going to expound on it here.  Let's instead enjoy Hetfield asking very profound questions like it's Christmastime.

Some quality riffage here, with pungent accents, and hey--if you feel proggy, leap.  There's even a solo that starts off sounding for all the world like a Kerry King klassic. 

I escaped into Justice frequently in my first year out of high school, when I was without a source of income, struggling with writing, and hating everything.  I would lose myself in these labyrinthine tunes and take an impermanent comfort in the revelation that the odds would be against me even if I were out there trying to make my way forward in a world that didn't care if I just stay still and decay into the earth.

That trick doesn't work as well nowadays, I have to say.

"One"--An all-timer.  I remember Metallica getting some guff from the diehards over actually deigning to make a video for "One."  Doesn't matter that it was comprised of stark blue-grey footage of the band playing in a warehouse interspersed with clips from the black-and-white film Johnny Get Your Gun--THEY'RE SUCKING MTV'S COCK KILLLL THEEEEMMM!

Dalton Trumbo's original novel about a soldier-turned-vegetable is even bleaker than the visuals it inspired.  I highly recommend it if you ever feel too good about life.

A verse on the clouds, a chorus on a bed of nails, synchronized jackhammers, fusillade of notes piercing the air like hollow points…in the hands of amateurs, "One" would come off as a cringeworthy example of everything that makes the genre fertile ground for satirists.  But Metallica are experts by now.

Lemme tell you this story.

One eve my best friend and I decided to hit up the McDonalds drive-thru.  …And Justice For All was blasting from the tape deck of her Chevelle. (Yes, I did once upon a time own the album on cassette as well as compact disc.)  As my pal placed our order, "One" began playing.  There were, I remember, three cars in front of us.

Seven and a half minutes later, just as "One" was coming to a close, we finally pulled up to the window to get our food.

Moral of this story:  "One" rules, McDonald's sucks.

"The Shortest Straw"--Lotsa stuttering, puttering, and muttering--but none of it sounds furious.  (And Hetfield mispronounces the word "nadir."  The hell, dude.)  The band is putting on a clinic while inside a clinic, a risk that doesn't always pay off. 

There's also an egregious example of copy/paste here that Metallica is usually very good at keeping concealed.  Lars Ulrich's philosophy of drumming has pretty much always been, hit the fucking thing as hard as you can.  Which is fine.  Better than, actually.  But that takes a lot of energy out of even the fittest body, and considering every song on Justice is longer than whale dong, it's understandable that the diminutive Dane would wear himself out fairly quickly and experience difficulty knocking out his tracks in one solid go.  It happens more often than you might think.  I just don't like being reminded of it.  Keep the boom mic out of the shot, okay?

"Harvester of Sorrow"--Tremendous title.  "Harbinger of Demise" would have been ever-more tremendous, but let us not become ensnared in the "wouldas."  I have no problem hearing James Hetfield as the voice of the Grim Reaper in Pixar's new film, Til Death Do Us Party. 

The harvester speaks "the language of the mad."  Ah, German!  A fine tongue.

What in the rapidly-plunging Blue Blazer is that sound from 0:25 to 0:47?  I went friggin' yonks without picking up on it, and now I need to know precisely which supernatural creature from precisely which supernatural realm infiltrated the mix.

"The Frayed Ends of Sanity"--So untouchable.  Wizard of Oz frivolity aside, "Frayed Ends" has from day one been my favorite from Justice.  It marks the moment when the lyrical concern shifts from the horrors of the world to the horrors of you. 

Yep, I love that shit. I'm that type of gal.

Mental illness ain't a lustrous business.  The usual crests and nadirs of human life are experienced at unusual intensity.  This is not to be underestimated or disrespected.  Take notes, make changes. 

Okay, enough of the deep shit.  4:04 is like someone heard me gasping for air and decided the best course of action would be to dropkick me dead in mid-chest, so forcefully that my sternum exploded inside of my body. 

"To Live Is To Die"--The second song on the album that approaches ten minutes, and the closest thing to a Cliff tribute Metallica has yet put on record.  (The lyrics, what little there are anyway, are commonly attributed to the late bassist.  They are in fact from the German poet Paul Gerhardt.) 

The funeral collation just might be sadder than the actual funeral.  People standing stock-still, and when they do move they lurch.  Staring into space until the blur becomes the norm.  Sighing at irregular intervals.  Seeking relief.  Making small talk that neither they nor the other person will remember in one hours time.  Doing anything to forget about the harsh realities of being a mutable organism.

At some point in time, simply inhaling oxygen becomes a difficult task.  If we're lucky, a hand or two might reach out to us, start rubbing small and insistent circles on our shoulders, our back.  Something to keep us grounded in the now while we yearn for the past.  When things were whole.  Or at least when things were okay.

"Dyers Eve"--After an hour spent attacking faceless powers-that-be, James finally addresses the very first authority figures he ever knew:  mom and dad.

Mr. and Mrs. Hetfield ran a tight ship, steered by their adherence to Christian Science, a metaphysical quasi-religion that stresses the power of prayer and positive thought as cures for all physical maladies.  This meant no doctors, and no hospital visits.  In a stunning turn of events, James' mother was unable to "pray away" her cancer.  This devastating loss, combined with his father's ever-firm hand at home, made for a very displeased young man.  It took until his band's fourth album, with the loss of another intimate influence fresh in his mind, for James to unleash his grievances.  Giving voice to deep-seated frustrations gives a person real power; all one can hope is that they will do good with their new found strength.  "Dyers Eve" is one hell of a start in the right direction.  It thrashes like an orangutan orgy.  It makes me wanna scream myself hoarse.  I want to let you all know how much I resented my mother growing up, except I didn't because she is in fact the greatest person to ever live!  Always has been!  But I gotta yell at somebody about something!  Why don't they make peach-flavored Pop Tarts, GRRRRRRR.  My anger is pulsating through my body!



….And Justice For All is an odds-defier.  Metallica may not have been expected to bounce back after losing their creative linchpin--they did.   Observers might not have foreseen such a morose, complex, recklessly-produced record going quintuple platinum--it has.  Common sense would have it that an album whose bass guitar parts can best be described as "hypothetical" could not conceivably be a near-classic--to some, myself included, it is just that.  Of course plenty of people disagree with that appraisal and detest Justice to the core.  That's fine.  Can we all agree that the "Harvester of Sorrow" demo is fuckin' hilarious?