Year Of Metal #076: Metallica - St. Anger
We’ve got to start with the drums. While (speaking from a non-Metallica fan’s perspective) I don’t think St. Anger on the whole is a totally terrible album, Lars Ulrich’s drums - specifically that tinny snare - are every bit as awful as the haters would have you believe. Ulrich continues to back the production choice, and whether you believe it was intentional from the off or a hill he’s found himself willing to die on years after the fact, they contribute in a large part to the ugly sound of this infamous critical flop.
And to that end, I am sort of inclined to believe Ulrich meant it all along. St. Anger is a consciously self lacerating, furious piece of work from a band on the verge of complete meltdown. Last year I watched Some Kind Of Monster which, despite my lack of interest in Metallica, is one of the best documentaries I’ve ever seen. Seeing these metal legends gnash and whine at each other is hilarious and sad in turn, and with so much tumult going on - Hetfield’s stint in rehab, the band’s group therapy, Ulrich’s war with Napster, concerns over their place in the world of heavy music - it’s not so surprising they’d come out with a record so obviously scarred, angsty, and unfun.
Most interesting is Metallica’s lurch into nu metal - it’s trend chasing of a sort on their part, but no doubt they were huge inspirations on a lot of the acts that had dominated the past five years, so it’s probably fair enough. The chunky riffs on “Invisible Kid” are pretty plain but give you something to hang onto at least, and in general this is one of the better tracks - it has an actual purpose, regression therapy of sorts into Hetfield’s younger days. It’s stymied by the ridiculous drums and the fact it goes on for eight thuddingly unvaried minutes, but there’s a point to it at least.
“My World” is my pick for the best song on the record, faint though that praise may be. They lean even more into nu metal tropes here, with some sinister whispery bits and vocal tricks from Hetfield. Lars spends a lot more time hammering on the toms which helps to alleviate the shonkiness of his drum kit. Again it drags on for an age without really going anywhere (in one of the doc’s best scenes, Kirk Hammett throws a sulk when he’s banned from playing solos on the record; they’d certainly have broken up the monotony a little), but I like the heft and personality on this one.
What’s really odd about St. Anger is the committee-like feel to a lot of it. This is, in theory, a deeply personal record, with chief lyricist and occasional dictator figure James Hetfield addressing his trauma, addictions, and mental health struggles. But in Some Kind Of Monster, you see the band (pre-hiring of bassist and only normal bloke in the room Rob Trujilo) sat around writing lyrics. They give themselves something like 45 minutes, scrawl on legal pads, then share the shit they’ve come up with. This leads to lines like “my lifestyle determines my death style,” which they liked enough to include as a hook on opener and second single “Frantic”. It feels less like self exploration and more like something you’d read in a signature on a weird online forum.
Maybe this should have been Metallica’s Let It Be. Everyone involved has something different they want to do, whether it’s tackle demons or move with the times (while combating the corrosive powers of the internet) or play a load of guitar solos. Give the three of them four songs each like the Walker Brothers and see what they come out with. “Sweet Amber”, for example, while no great song, is a creditable effort on Hetfield’s part to examine his issues with drinking.
St. Anger takes on the frustrations of Metallica, but doesn’t seem to do anything to dissect or examine them. Instead it just regurgitates all that angst and tension for well over an hour, creating a milieu so oppressive and unpleasant that it doesn’t even seem especially cathartic for anyone concerned.
