The Black Album and its Myriad Discontents

I just watched the Black Album edition of "Classic Albums," which was an interspersal of old "Year and a Half in the Life of Metallica" footage with new scenes of the band back in the studio with Bob Rock talking about the recording process and their lives during that period. The old footage left me speechless, in awe of how cool they once were. Their past stint as rulers of the known universe I had all but forgotten, and the reminder of their zenith was an emotional one for me. By the end, however, I was left only with a feeling of resentment for how they had soured themselves to me. What happened to those men who owned the world? They who could do no wrong? I see pictures of them now and only feel annoyed; news items about them barely register a blip on my Metal Radar. I just stopped caring about them, and I can tell you exactly when: the day Reload was released. It wasn't a conscious effort to distance myself, but in retrospect I see that was my breaking point. Once I heard that album, cobbled together from Load's studio outtakes- did they even try?-I left behind my dedication to them and have essentially ceased to acknowledge their existence ever since.

Oh, the love of them still festers in my black little Gibson Explorer-loving heart, but most often I find myself uttering the cliched, self-righteously snobbish phrase "I'm a fan of their older stuff." And it's true- Master of Puppets, culled from a not-yet-boyfriend's CD collection in my 15th year (long after its initial impact on the music world, but such is the fate of one born several years too late for her own good), remains my preferred Metallica album. I find that the Black Album often slips through the cracks of my personal musical history; as the link between Old Metallica and New Metallica, I'm guilty of often writing it off as a too-accessible album of which I've grown tired...and it takes forced focus to remind me how truly incredible the entire album really is. How much sentimental value is attached to it for me- though mainly in the songs' "Live Sh*t" form, as the 1992 release was simpatico with my forging of metal fandom (incidentally, I recall the live video for "Sad But True"- which to my 12 year old ears sounded like "Sad Patrol"- frequently succeeded by Faith No More's "Epic." My sister and I found Mike Patton and his boxing gloves HILARIOUS, and with each viewing would stand in front of the TV laughing and imitating his movements during the chorus. Now, of course, FNM is one of my all-time favorites, and I'm fond of the memory of them entertaining even my undiscerning mind). I never CHOOSE to listen to the Black Album anymore; even the mere sight of it hearkens back to hearing "Enter Sandman" at the McKnight Middle School "dances" one too many times. The mental imagery that I hold of each song exudes early-pubescent uncertainty and a fight to carve out one's place in the social strata of teenage society. I was making the transition from clean-cut honors student to "dirty" metal fan who even still refused to compromise her grades (which is why I identify so much with the character of Lindsay from "Freaks and Geeks"), and Metallica was my bridge. It's not often something I'm inclined to revisit- would ANYONE relive their middle school days if given the chance?- which, I believe, is why the Black Album has sat encased on my CD shelves, untouched, for years despite its relevance and- yes, I'll say it- genius.

And so, it takes the suggestion of that same boy who once shared his Master of Puppets with me of "why don't you Netflix the Classic Albums: The Black Album?" for me to listen to these songs once again- now as an adult- and muse on what they meant to my formative self over a decade ago. They were not as I remembered.

I heard the layers upon layers upon layers of solid, perfectly mastered rhythm guitar. I heard the evocation and passion in the "Unforgiven" solo, something that I never noticed had been grossly lacking in all previous listenings. I heard the massive, live drum sound incorporating heavy use of the floor toms. I heard the clean, warm bass tones, the innovation and invention, and the revolutionary songwriting that took the band from well-respected by their insular fanbase to, quite possibly, the biggest band in the world- an impressive feat indeed for members of a genre feared by parents worldwide.

I realized a hatred of Lars, which had never happened in quite such a caustic manner in the past- even during the Napster debacle, it was a lazy disapproval at best. This new acrimony was a difficult realization, as I believe into every pubescent Metallica fan's life comes a time of Metallica deification. Yes, at one point they could do no wrong in my eyes. I was enamored of their powerful sound and the gloriously uncompromising attitude that was their M.O., so much so that any criticism of them- musically or personally- was immediately dismissed without so much as perfunctory consideration. This new view into the members as people, however, dramatically reworked any remaining vestiges of that attitude and left me feeling like the only time Lars was EVER worth listening to was during that "Year & a Half" scene where he's speeding around in his Mustang, talking about the lines on the road being mere suggestions. I hated his smarmy attitude, his seeming inability to laugh at himself, and most of all his tendency to turn everything back around to himself.
"Yeah, 'Enter Sandman' was originally Kirk's riff," he said. "But it was my idea to take his 'head/tail, head/tail' arrangement and turn it into 'head, head, head/tail.'" It's easy to see why his headstrong, Type A attitude made the band not so much a partnership as a dictatorship, with him and James perpetually locked in a power struggle for the top spot- other members be damned.

Which brings me to Jason. Quiet, passive Jason. Jason who, were it not for the huge news regarding the details of his entrance into the band, would scarcely have been known to exist- his presence on "Justice" being notoriously undetectable. Oh, but Jason, you're the one who deserves continued emulation. You're the one who didn't let the stars get in your eyes; you were and still remain eminently composed and articulate. Your words and self-aware perspective are the stuff of metal angels; in one evening you've risen up from beneath the larger-than-life countenances of your former bandmates and claimed the position of Rose's Favorite Member- knocking the hotrod-driving James from the throne. Jason, if only more were like you! So calm and rational, while still so unparalleled in your talent (with due respect to the abilities of the late Cliff Burton, of course). You have none of the expected affectations of a successful recording artist. You are vastly underappreciated. Come live at my house- I'll pay you the attention that you so desperately deserve, but for which your unassuming self would never directly ask. Bring the rest of the Voivod guys with you if you like. I always liked them. P.S. Sorry about Piggy.

And such is my newly rekindled admiration of this seminal album, one that fully deserves the title of "classic." And while to me it's still no Master of Puppets, the Black Album's permanent position as second favorite has been refortified- unthinkable for the purists, I know. Sadly, I don't believe the band will ever be able to live up to their own legacy; the impact that album had is too big for even its own makers to follow. Try as they might, those heights will never again be reached, much to the dismay of those who remember their good old days. They were once gods, but now Metallica just don't deliver- I wish they'd just STOP, rather than letting us all continue to watch their slow demise.