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From the vaults: Metallica - St. Anger
Possibly the most maligned record ever made, this album was nonetheless a noble failure. The sound of band hungering to embrace its metalllic essence yet reticent to simply replicate its past, 'St. Anger' is full of experiments, some of which worked and many of which didn't. At times the sonic equivalent of one those abract pieces of art which Ulrich loves so deeply, reviewers quickly pointed to there being much 'wrong' with the album - the stunted, tin-can drum sound, the turgid mix, and the absence of guitar solos being the most commonly sounded. None of this really gets to the root of the problem, however. What this album really lacked was nuance, the contrast of darkness and light, beauty and the beast, which made Metallica, like all truly great metal bands, unmatchable in the 80s and which heirs to the throne Mastodon are running with now. The absence of lighter moments makes for over 70 minutes of music which is as tuneless as it is furious.
Given the well publicsed 'problems' which the band, and James Hetfield in particular, were enduring during the process of producing this album, perhaps this ferocity is art at its most pure: catharsis. Detractors quickly scoffed at the notion of 'millionaire crybabys', but such mocking doesn't really hold any water - the notion that money buys happiness or fulfilment is as disengenuous as the suggestion that Hetfield was not a deeply troubled soul during this period. Indeed, there is a rawness, a primal expression of torment, which seeps from this album and it is perhaps that which disturbed reviewers as much as the unconventional sonic approach - the uncomfortable vulnerability on display here makes for a times unnerving experience. At its best this rawness produced the Discharge riffage and naked vitriol of opening salvo of 'Frantic' and the titletack, and the slugging body blow of 'Purify', a song so heavy it could wind a buffalo; at its worst its left us with the aimless 'Invisible Kid', a musing on an ignored childhood which reaches for profound but only manages to grab trite.
There is little contrived about this venting, then. Indeed, the main problem with Lars' drum sound is that it felt like a calculated attempt to get back to basics, a calculation which detracted from Hetfield's wounded vocals and visceral guitar playing (it is noticeable that the songs sound so much more powerful on the accompanying DVD studio performacne.) 'All Within My Hands' is the latter's finest hour, a beast of a song exploring the depths of a controlling personality which can result from inferiority - a huge departure from the 'fuck the world' mentality so frequently projected from Hetfield, the track nonetheless manages to stagger in its aggressiveness, and may be one of the most inventing recordings Metallica has ever laid down. Although decidedly less aggressive 'The Unnamed Feeling' is nevertheless a mongrel beauty of a song, and perhaps the true embodiment of the 'greasy' sound which Lars so often mistakenly employed to characterize the 'Load' albums.
'St. Anger', then, was a real musical statement from a band in turmoil. Accusations of 'sell out' fall flat on listening to this piece of commercial suicide, and album without an obvious single and which existed apart from any musical trend of the time. It is a hard listen, and even harder to love - but it is a truly honest emotional statement. Ugly as it was, this was three guys making music from their hearts - a limping band, but a beautiful one statement despite all of its deformities. A maelstrom of riffs, time changes and a battery of some of the most aggressive music ever recorded, to these ears 'St. Anger' makes many of the death and extreme metal 'underground' bands sound as dangerous as Lady Gaga by comparision. And it is the song which encapsulates that ugly beauty most perfectly, 'Some Kind Of Monster', which would have perhaps been its most fitting title - it has certainly become its most appropriate epitaph.
Possibly the most maligned record ever made, this album was nonetheless a noble failure. The sound of band hungering to embrace its metalllic essence yet reticent to simply replicate its past, 'St. Anger' is full of experiments, some of which worked and many of which didn't. At times the sonic equivalent of one those abract pieces of art which Ulrich loves so deeply, reviewers quickly pointed to there being much 'wrong' with the album - the stunted, tin-can drum sound, the turgid mix, and the absence of guitar solos being the most commonly sounded. None of this really gets to the root of the problem, however. What this album really lacked was nuance, the contrast of darkness and light, beauty and the beast, which made Metallica, like all truly great metal bands, unmatchable in the 80s and which heirs to the throne Mastodon are running with now. The absence of lighter moments makes for over 70 minutes of music which is as tuneless as it is furious.
Given the well publicsed 'problems' which the band, and James Hetfield in particular, were enduring during the process of producing this album, perhaps this ferocity is art at its most pure: catharsis. Detractors quickly scoffed at the notion of 'millionaire crybabys', but such mocking doesn't really hold any water - the notion that money buys happiness or fulfilment is as disengenuous as the suggestion that Hetfield was not a deeply troubled soul during this period. Indeed, there is a rawness, a primal expression of torment, which seeps from this album and it is perhaps that which disturbed reviewers as much as the unconventional sonic approach - the uncomfortable vulnerability on display here makes for a times unnerving experience. At its best this rawness produced the Discharge riffage and naked vitriol of opening salvo of 'Frantic' and the titletack, and the slugging body blow of 'Purify', a song so heavy it could wind a buffalo; at its worst its left us with the aimless 'Invisible Kid', a musing on an ignored childhood which reaches for profound but only manages to grab trite.
There is little contrived about this venting, then. Indeed, the main problem with Lars' drum sound is that it felt like a calculated attempt to get back to basics, a calculation which detracted from Hetfield's wounded vocals and visceral guitar playing (it is noticeable that the songs sound so much more powerful on the accompanying DVD studio performacne.) 'All Within My Hands' is the latter's finest hour, a beast of a song exploring the depths of a controlling personality which can result from inferiority - a huge departure from the 'fuck the world' mentality so frequently projected from Hetfield, the track nonetheless manages to stagger in its aggressiveness, and may be one of the most inventing recordings Metallica has ever laid down. Although decidedly less aggressive 'The Unnamed Feeling' is nevertheless a mongrel beauty of a song, and perhaps the true embodiment of the 'greasy' sound which Lars so often mistakenly employed to characterize the 'Load' albums.
'St. Anger', then, was a real musical statement from a band in turmoil. Accusations of 'sell out' fall flat on listening to this piece of commercial suicide, and album without an obvious single and which existed apart from any musical trend of the time. It is a hard listen, and even harder to love - but it is a truly honest emotional statement. Ugly as it was, this was three guys making music from their hearts - a limping band, but a beautiful one statement despite all of its deformities. A maelstrom of riffs, time changes and a battery of some of the most aggressive music ever recorded, to these ears 'St. Anger' makes many of the death and extreme metal 'underground' bands sound as dangerous as Lady Gaga by comparision. And it is the song which encapsulates that ugly beauty most perfectly, 'Some Kind Of Monster', which would have perhaps been its most fitting title - it has certainly become its most appropriate epitaph.
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