Wednesday, March 02, 2005


Due to the subject matter - past-prime Biggest Band Of Genre trying to make art with only commercial pressure as inspiration - I figured Metallica: Some Kind Of Monster would be one of my favorite movies of all time. It is. Kirk Hammett flipping out when stripped of his last shred of ego, the guitar solo. James Hetfield going from anxious, uninspired door-slammer with alcohol to anxious, uninspired door-slammer with glasses. TEMP-TAY-shunnnnnn-AHH! Exploring the Zone with Dr. Eugene Landy II. Bob Rock amusing himself with protools while waiting for his 20% off the top. Dave Mustaine reminding Lars that someone always has it worse. Jason Newstead happy to return to Earth, count his millions, rock out with Echobrain - "The future!" sayeth Lars - and trade places with Robert Trujillo, who will now get to learn what it's like to sell out *clap* every night (as Pepper Keenan sulks back to COC).

All of these were predictable pleasures after reading reviews, but what I wasn't expecting was to spend two hours sympathizing with Lars Ulrich. Surrounded by Bruce Banner, Luke-Warm Water and a variety of vampires, Ulrich was the only person who had enthusiasm, a bullshit-detector and the desire to give it 150%. He had plenty of boneheaded ideas (is there any precedent for A New Sense Of Collaboration actually paying off?) and his run-in with Napster reveals a modicum of power trippage (understandable from a millionaire drummer whose then-wife was stolen from Matt Damon), but Mustaine's Little Danish Friend seems like the only guy who has any Metallica left in him. The goofball drums sound better than Hetfield's lyrics too. Apologies to everybody who hears me note "it's a little stock" whenever possible for the next ten years.

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