When you’ve been writing and recording music for as long as Metallica has, you know the drill. The album comes out, the public consumes it, and then the expulsion of vitriol about how the band should have dissolved back in 1991 begins. It’s a vicious cycle, but one that those of us interested in attempting to make sense of such things can’t get enough of.
Social media has only exacerbated the process of disseminating music out into the world, because we’re dealing with a platform that rewards manufactured outrage rather than critical thinking. The hive wants what it wants and has reduced what used to be a noble profession (i.e. criticism) to just another avenue for the attention whores of the Western world to build their brand. Like the vampires in 1987’s “The Lost Boys,” they must feed, which leads to the majority of reviews that accompany an album’s release sounding as if they were written without evening listening to said album in full.
In the case of “72 Seasons,” Metallica was in a no-win situation from the beginning. If they tried something new, the diehards would shit on them for deviating from the formula. If they tried to rekindle the flames of thrash’s past, the diehards would shit on them for carving out a comfortable pocket and appearing to no longer be interested in challenging themselves creatively. What we actually get throughout this 77-minute behemoth is a mid-tempo, conservative, and riff-heavy production that is elevated by some of the most poignant lyrical content of James Hetfield’s career.
He throws himself on the mercy of a fanbase that should be grateful for the amount of psychic transparency here, because what he’s essentially doing is exorcising the demons of his childhood under the guise of a group project in which Lars, Kirk, and Robert are doing their best to execute his vision. It’s as close to a concept album as we’ll get from them and anyone who approaches these songs with realistic expectations should find something worth revisiting down the line.
“If Darkness Had a Son” is a brooding rumination on good and evil anchored by a snarling Hetfield vocal while “Lux Aeterna” is the thrashiest track of the bunch with echoes of “Hit the Lights” and a rare solo from Hammett that isn’t negated by his frequent exploitation of the wah pedal. The problem lies in the fact that too many of the songs are hampered by a lack of sonic variety that appears to be a hallmark of the era of Metallica we’re living in, but that familiarity doesn’t entirely ruin the listening experience. “72 Seasons” and the 11-minute closing track, “Inamorata,” save the day with Hetfield’s refrain of “Misery, she needs me. Oh, oh, but I need her more” during the latter cutting right to the bone in more ways than one.
I won’t dispute the contention that this album would be tighter at 50-60 minutes in length, but I will say that comparing it to anything other than the two previous records does a disservice to both the band and one’s own ability to enjoy the ride. Metallica has reached the Iron Maiden stage of their career where the songs are getting longer and the fans’ patience is getting shorter, so, if you’re longing for the days of yore, drop the needle on your 1984 pressing of “Ride the Lightning” and pretend that nothing else matters.
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