Metallica fade to pre-Black
by Matt Sullivan
In retrospect, Metallica's success in the '80s is hard to fathom. Sure, the '90s saw their greatest mainstream successes, but the fact that a thrash band writing eight-minute epics could produce platinum records in the era of spandex glam-pop is an achievement that cannot be overstated—and with virtually no radio airplay at that. In that decade, Metallica belonged to the underground and bent the mainstream to their will. Their first four records grew exponentially more complex, and even though MTV had emerged as the dominating star-making force during that time, Metallica didn't bother making a video until they had released an album in which choruses were sometimes separated by as many as four minutes. By the time "Enter Sandman" transcended metal three years later and that dude's bed got demolished by an 18-wheeler, Metallica had already defined a generation of heavy metal.
In terms of sheer ambition, 1991's Metallica, or Black Album, was definitely a step backward, even though the record yielded at least four unfuckwithable classics. But the metal underground can be an unforgiving place. Having risen to prominence during the time of hair metal, Metallica became one of the biggest bands in the world in an era where authenticity reigned supreme. After basing their career on shunning anything remotely radio-friendly, the fact that the band were even willing to entertain the idea of writing a concise song that might be released as a single was enough for overly protective purists to cry foul. Even though the band had already sold millions of copies of their previous albums, Metallica marked the point where the underground felt as if the band had been co-opted from them.
Through no fault of their own, Metallica had become victims of their own success—not that they had any difficulty finding an audience in those days. But during the five years that separated the Black Album and the rest of their '90s output, the ground had shifted underneath them. For one, the underground metal on which their early work wielded enormous influence splintered into a thousand different -cores and sub-cores, each existing with seemingly no higher purpose than to lay claim on a more extreme and remote piece of musical real estate than the travelers before them. As trailblazing as Metallica might have been, maintaining a cult following proves tough when your string-laden ballad "Nothing Else Matters" is sandwiched between videos by Weird Al and Salt-N-Pepa. VH1 even ranked "Enter Sandman" number 18 on their list of the 100 greatest songs of the '90s, just behind Destiny's Child's "Say My Name." That's two spots removed from "MmmBop," for chrissakes.
Even though Metallica lent legitimacy to metal, the underground was destined to spend the '90s out in the cold while the world smelled like Teen Spirit. In the latter half of the decade, bands playing under misspelled names with backwards letters would try to sell the '90s version of hair metal, and that's the climate in which Metallica decided to mount a return. After a five year hiatus, the band unleashed Load and Reload—two albums that ultimately should have resulted in a longer hiatus. The Nickelbacks of the world had just gotten their feet in the door. As a respected metal band, Metallica had ceased to exist, and the one posturing around calling itself Metallica drew a lot of derision from the cred-police. And that ire was rightfully deserved–the world has Nickelbacks in it now. By the time the Napster shit storm rolled around, even something as monumental as Master of Puppets was a tough sell to a new listener.
At the height of Metallica's creativity, they were still a part of the scene they helped foster. Master of Puppets was released in 1986, the same year as Slayer's Reign in Blood and Megadeth's Peace Sells...But Who's Buying? They had ushered in the arrival of thrash and solidified it as a genre and aesthetic befitting anyone wanting to be tough as shit. Nearly 20 years later, the documentary film Some Kind of Monster famously aired the band's dirty laundry and group therapy sessions, portraying a unit comprised of two megalomaniacs and a complete boob, each with little understanding of what's happening around them. Filmed shortly after the departure of longtime bassist Jason Newsted, the conversations focus less on how to replace him than on who can fill in for the late Cliff Burton, who was killed when the band's tour bus crashed in 1986. Newsted's tenure was nearly five times as long as Burton's, yet guitarist/vocalist James Hetfield and drummer Lars Ulrich's romanticization of the Burton years gives the impression of a band who knows their best years are behind them. The film culminates in the release of the band's shittiest album to date, St. Anger, which spawned tours with the patently uncool (Godsmack, Avenged Sevenfold) and downright stupid (Slipknot).
Some Kind of Monster depicted either a band brave enough to embarrass itself or a group of individuals completely divorced from reality. Regardless, the film and the pot shots that have been taken at the band from the likes of Slayer's Kerry King and even Newsted seem to have humbled them. Last year's Death Magnetic marks Metallica's unabashed attempt to reclaim their lost luster, sounding almost like a follow-up to Black Album predecessor ...And Justice For All. Recent tours have seen an improvement in opening slots as well, with Mastodon, The Sword and Gojirra each enjoying a bit of face time. While the bright spots on the record get lost in the occassional tedium, the scene in Monster in which the band is rehearsing a Master of Puppets number keeps us faithful. Even after Napster, group therapy and those Load and Reload albums, "Battery" will always kick ass.
Email music@nashvillescene.com.
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