Metallica
St. Anger
(Elektra, 2003)

Is it fair to call St. Anger the Phantom Menace of Metallica albums? Probably. I guess that makes Robert Trujillo the Jar Jar Binks of the heavy metal universe. Hmmm. You know, that seems a smidge harsh. If the few interviews I’ve seen are at all indicative of the bigger picture, Rob’s a laid back, affable, take-it-as-it-comes, don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff type of guy. He doesn’t strike me as someone who’d clumsily force himself into social situations while using cringe-inducing vernacular like “meesa” and “bantha poodoo.” I’ve definitely never seen Robert Trujillo hanging out at a galactic senate hearing, nor tangled in any kind of embarrassing vest-bellbottom situation. Thus, pegging Rob as Public Metal Gungan Enemy #1 is unfair. Sure, he does that weird crab walk when he plays bass, but I think we can let that slide. Homeboy was in Suicidal Tendencies.

But I digress. It cannot be denied that Metallica fans—nay, the world at large—turned against James Hetfield & His Get Fresh Crew the minute St. Anger hit record store shelves in June of 2003. If I’m remembering correctly, full-scale riots destroyed most of what was once Akron, Ohio, and claimed the life of original Charmin spokesperson Dick “Mr. Whipple” Wilson. What were the major complaints regarding Metallica’s eighth studio effort? The songs were too long, drifting aimlessly like empty nu-metal rowboats. The drums sounded like Lars fell asleep on the “suck” knob. The lyrics—oy gevalt, don’t get me started. “Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, TOC?” “My lifestyle determines my death style?” “Court is in session, and I slam my gavel down?” These couplets sound more like Dr. Phil catchphrases than ass-ripping Metallica shout-alongs.

I understand the criticisms. Metallica’s career arc can best be described as frustrating, particularly for the band’s longtime fans (Jocelyn Hoppa wrote a rather impassioned article touching on that subject last year). Hell, I don’t even consider myself a casual Metallica enthusiast and these guys have given me more headaches than long-form algebra. In fact, the release of last year’s Death Magnetic literally gave me the flu. I’m not joking. It started when I couldn’t decide if “My Apocalypse” was the most awesome song I’d heard in 2008 or the stupidest; this ballooned into a mental civil war over Metallica’s general artistic merits. After four sleepless nights of furiously jotting down all my thoughts, crossing them out, and writing them anew, I collapsed into bed with a 100 degree fever. Finally, I understood what motivated Dave Mustaine to write “Sweating Bullets.”

Yet, I cannot damn Metallica for St. Anger, the one album of theirs I’ve more or less championed since its release. I’m sure part of that has to do with my core desire to go against the basic grain of humanity (I relish the look on people’s faces when I tell them I absolutely love Waterworld). However, I do honestly enjoy Metallica’s 11-song midlife crisis. These guys have seen both sides of the coin—underground deity status and crushing commercial success. You can’t knock them for trying to switch things up post-Black Album. Where were they supposed to go with their music after all of that? Besides, the dissonant and solo-free version Metallica still manages to bring home enough tasty riffage on St. Anger to make for a fist-pumping, skull-smashing, migraine-inducing good time. The intense title track is on par with any cut from the band’s glory years. “Some Kind of Monster” rolls over like a duplex-sized Mack truck on the dustiest part of Route 66. “Dirty Window” and “Invisible Kid” both have pretty sick grooves, although the latter does go on for about four minutes longer than it should.

Therein lies the biggest problem with St. Anger; without the requisite widdily guitar breaks and semi-Wagnerian arrangements, the songs do tend to meander like a bored teenager at the mall. This discernible lack of flow really stalls the second half of the album. It came as no surprise a year later when the infamous Some Kind of Monster documentary revealed Metallica experiencing a psychological Chernobyl as they attempted to craft this album. As we all saw, it’s kind of hard to squeeze out truly inspiring, white-hot metal when you have to break every five minutes to discuss your feelings with the soft-spoken pastel sweater jockey your management company hired to make sure you don’t go apeshit and start stabbing each other with solid gold letter openers. If I had to hang out with Phil Towle every day for 18 months, I’d probably down-tune my guitar and start yarling about doughnuts too.

This raw emotional experience is the hallmark of St. Anger; in places, the catharsis is undeniably delicious. Five minutes into the weighty closer “All Within My Hands”, everything slows down for a brief snippet of stuttering guitar signal à la any rank amateur who’s ever had to plug in with inferior pawn shop equipment. It’s a moment of honesty and nakedness not generally associated with the standard air-tight Metallica production. I find it far more endearing than the ominous arpeggio that opens “Enter Sandman” or the scary monster voice that punctuates “Master of Puppets.” Respect must be given to Lars and Company for laying it all out there, for not going the easy route and penning “The Unforgiven III” (although they would do exactly that just a few years later). Lifers in the Metallica Army may look upon St. Anger with all the love of a Star Wars prequel, but as far as I’m concerned, this record has enough action and heart to be at least the aural equivalent of Return of the Jedi.

Congratulations, Robert Trujillo. You just moved up to Ewok status.

Listen: “St. Anger” [at youtube.com]

Tags: Metallica, St. Anger, Some Kind of Monster

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