Men grow old. Legends live forever. That's a problem for Metallica. Burdened by paradox, the group's mere relevance in 2008 is a testament not to the graying, leather-clad rockers, but to the near-mythic quality of an era gone by. What's now more brand than band was once a pack of pimply twenty-somethings blessed with a terrifically violent combination of speed, volume and, above all, ability. But passing time, foolish decisions and producer Bob Rock, the grim reaper of thrash, all rendered our heroes disposable. Metal doesn't wear well with age. Even "the quartet of deliverance" gets only so many chances to get back on the horse.
The cover of "Death Magnetic," the band's first major work in five years, suggests that James, Lars, Kirk and new bassist Robert Trujillo feel this urgency. Strapped in a blaze of glory across a black casket silhouette, the signature lightening bolt logo retired at the onset of the "Load" period resurfaces in an attempt to resurrect a sentiment of aggression long abandoned. It's a nod to the old days, to the hard-cores, to the kid who just picked up "Kill 'Em All." This is back-against-the-wall kind of stuff - all attitude, all grit. And all for nothing if the music sucks.
It only takes 90 seconds to figure out that "Death Magnetic" does not.
When a crescendo of heaviness finally breaks into machine-gun fire riffing in the opener "That Was Just Your Life," Metallica reveals itself as a grenade with a bum fuse. Turns out the ammunition was live all along - it just needed another light. The track is reminiscent of "Blackened" from the "And Justice For All" album. In a game of chicken, Hetfield and Ulrich race each other into groove pre-choruses. Hammett rips off a breakneck solo. Trujillo musters a rumbling undercurrent.
And so it is: a dormant force awakened. "The End of the Line" and "All Nightmare Long" continue the onslaught. The latter defies time, hurtling along at a velocity exceeded only by the likes of "Battery" and "Fight Fire with Fire." Even more impressive, the melodic chorus threatens to "hunt you down without mercy" and perhaps beat you senseless in a back alley for good measure.
Rick Rubin's restrained studio tinkering only lends to the intensity. Tinny drums and muddied guitars followed Bob Rock out the door. In their place, a clarity of sound brings order to the mayhem. "The Day That Never Comes," for instance, thrives on the particulars. A split second of shrieking feedback caps each verse, providing a booming intro to the album's best chorus.
Alone in its failure, "The Unforgiven III" recalls the stale grunge undertones of the original despite its pretty piano prelude. The tempo is problematic, and the song ultimately becomes a pedestrian trampled by the running of bulls, three closing steamrollers highlighted by the frenzied "My Apocalypse."
This doomsday herald at once brings a legacy of destruction full circle and forcefully restores the band to its rightful seat. The Four Horsemen are back in the saddle.
