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Taming the beast

By Chris Campion
June 28 2003

Oi! You! Metallica have calmed down, really they have

It's a new, warm and fuzzy Metallica that's rocking into middle age.

The United States Army's Psychological Operations Company recently revealed that it has played Metallica's Enter Sandman repeatedly to Iraqi prisoners as a pre-interrogation routine.

In the words of one officer: "Your brain and body functions start to slide, your train of thought slows down and your will is broken."

This may come as a surprise to Metallica, who pride themselves on lifting spirits rather than breaking them. With 85 million albums sold during their 20-year tenure at the top of the metal parade, the California-based quartet crank out the kind of loud-and-proud, chest-beating anthems that drive legions of disaffected teenagers into a frenzy at the thought of belonging to the largest rock'n'roll army in the world.

Their contradictory mash of musical brute force and angst-ridden lyrics (delivered in a fire-and-brimstone baritone by singer James Hetfield) has been the template for the new breed of hugely popular nu-metal bands such as Limp Bizkit and Linkin Park.

Following a self-imposed hiatus, Metallica's own war machine is gearing up to roll out and conquer the world once again in support of St Anger, their first album of new material for six years. It also marks their comeback after what drummer Lars Ulrich refers to as the band's "meltdown" three years ago.

First, Ulrich became a public hate figure after testifying to the US Senate about the menace to multi-millionaire rock industry figures posed by the popular Napster file-sharing software. Then Hetfield checked himself into rehab for alcohol and drug abuse. Finally, Jason Newsted (Metallica's bassist of 14 years) quit the band after deciding that their modus operandi of perpetual personality clash followed by bouts of alcohol-fuelled camaraderie was not for him any more.

All thoughts of conflict have been dispelled from the minds of the 2003 post-rehab Metallica, now augmented by bassist Robert Trujillo, from Ozzy Osbourne's band. Group hugs are the order of the day. Buzzwords such as "vulnerability" and "positive energy" are bandied about.

A warm, fuzzy bonhomie pervades Metallica Central, a converted warehouse in San Rafael, California. This two-storey complex houses their fan club and merchandising operation, a recording studio and a rehearsal room. A chef and a physical therapist are also on call to cater for the band. The building has a homely feel; the children of the people who work there run riot in the halls.

Blond, buff, tanned and sporting the kind of handlebar moustache that would go down a storm in leather bars, Hetfield is the group's straight-talking patriarch. He exudes the self-assured machismo that powers the band's music but is also candid about the source of his personal problems, conceding that the band had been the most rigid structure in his life for many years.

"The machine got so big," he bellows. "It became this monster that engulfed our whole lives; the beast that was always hungry. And I used that as an excuse all the time to brush off family events. The band always came first. The realisation that I could lose that made me look at myself and think, 'Is all my worth tied up with being the dude in Metallica?'"

Even Kirk Hammett, the most free-spirited member of the band and the only one who managed to sidestep the meltdown, admits to being shaken at the possibility that the group had reached the end of the line.

"It took James's going away for me to take a step back and see if there was anything in my personal life that I could use as a foundation in case the band went away," he says, picking at nuts and berries, all he can eat as part of a special diet to help him get in shape for the band's upcoming tour. "And I found that I did. It wasn't as big or as powerful or as public as Metallica, but it was enough for me."

Hetfield co-founded Metallica with Ulrich in 1981, when both were 18, after answering an ad that the drummer had placed in a local paper looking for musicians who shared his enthusiasm for the new wave of British heavy metal, groups such as Iron Maiden and Def Leppard.

They scored their first million-selling album with 1986's Master of Puppets. Its untitled follow-up was the third-largest-selling album of the 1990s in the US and shifted more than 15 million copies worldwide. "Even then," says Ulrich, "we never felt like we belonged to anything. We never felt part of the mainstream. We always felt like outsiders."

Ulrich is proud of what the band has achieved. While other thrash and death-metal bands of the time used the speed and volume of their music to make some kind of anti-social statement, Metallica seemed to use it as a protection mechanism. Secluded within their HQ, the band came over like a self-sufficient survivalist sect at odds with the secular music industry, resolute that their faith in the band will see them through.

The group has a reputation for unleashing their formidable legal team on anyone they feel has crossed the line. But when they traced the fans who were illegally accessing their music and used their details in a legal battle against Napster (collecting the names of almost 350,000 people), they provoked a backlash among their own fans.

"I wasn't on a crusade," says Ulrich. "The only thing I care about is protecting Metallica. From day one, we told the people who were interested in what we did, by all means come along for the ride, enjoy yourselves. But don't ever think that you own us and don't ever take us for granted. People still misunderstand; the core of the whole issue was about control."

The sound of St Anger - restless, urgent - seems to hark back to the relentless feel of Metallica's early work rather than their present mood. It's a sop to their fans, but it also sets out to prove that the new touchy-feely Metallica, whose members are all facing middle age, can still rock. "I am happy to report," grins Ulrich, "that it is possible to make a brutal, dynamic, out-of-control hard-rock record without the first thought running through your head every day that you want to kill everyone else in the band."

St Anger is out now.

The Daily Telegraph, London




- Star crossed
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- Taming the beast

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