Metallica- Metallica (Black Album) (Elektra, 1991)

Reviewed by Kloghole

My evaluation of Metallica’s Black Album comes not as much from the technical musicianship as from the context from which it spawned and thrived. While visiting a friend in a small Wisconsin college town, I went to this party where they played the usual 1980s musical diarrhea, Madonna, Janet Jackson, B-52’s.... Then it came, “Enter Sandman.” Anyone who knows me knows exactly when my trigger has been tripped - the subtle little hand gesture, the twitching eye, the deep breath before the eruption. I exploded in a rant about how the album was bullshit and asked them if they owned any real metal like Testament, Overkill, or Slayer. When they just stared at me blankly, I proceeded to tell them just what I thought of Metallica. Since my best friends back then were all named Evan, Jack, Jim, Yukon, and Southern, I will attempt to reconstruct my tirade for you here.

Here is the deal with Metallica’s Black Album, and Metallica in general for that matter. As a working-class youth and all the struggles that it entails, I was drawn to music that spoke to that desperate, brutal, and painful existence. There are a number of musical genres that can resonate with such a life history, but I began with metal. As I developed my exposure to different artists and styles, it became apparent that certain music was enjoyed by certain people. The kids of privilege all listened to U2, INXS, the B52’s, etc., and us commoners were relegated to Def Leppard’s High and Dry, ZZ Top’s El Loco, and Accept’s Balls to the Wall. Later, my tastes would harden, but the trend was clear. The goody two-shoes listened to radio drool while the working folks had to dig and scrape through album bins and BMG catalogs to find something remotely resembling music in our paltry, little, rural town of 6,000.

Metal is a rejection of the mainstream by definition. If an album or band is accepted by the mainstream, it is no longer a rejection of that mainstream. So, there is a serious problem with bands that “break it” into strong radio rotation. Some folks call it selling out. Others have stronger more inappropriate, explicit, sexist pejoratives to describe it. I just refuse to listen to it because of the people who identify with that music. I told those at the party who were “rocking out” to Metallica that they just wanted to pretend they were rebels. Oh yeah, we’re fuckin’ cool ‘cause we’re cranking Metallica. We’re so bad ass. Yeah, fuck you. I told them to put on some real fucking music (as if there is such a thing). If you want to be bad ass, put on Overkill’s The Years of Decay. “I Hate,” “Elimination,” “Shred,” and “Time to Kill” pretty much sums the bile bubbling out the pit of my stomach as that fucking, musical nausea called Metallica plodded on. The Years of Decay is a full-throttle punch in the throat that is truly an aggression release. Try it after your boss pulls some stupid shit on you. You will feel better as you pound the steering wheel and shout, “Time to Kill!”

So, I have noticed this despicable trend where people buy a name brand to make themselves seem so fucking rebellious. Metallica. The fucking idiots that shout “Metallica” as if they are the epitome of metal. Metallica is the stupid goddamn security sticker on your fucking CD. It is a useless label, but you can’t miss the fucking thing, everyone knows it’s there, and it’s in the way of the real music inside. Metallica is a safe way for fucking mainstream folks to “express” their wild side, and then act as if they own rebellion. Metallica is to metal what Harley is to motorcycles these days. Harley used to be the motorcycle of choice of the real bad-asses and general working-class bikers. Now, punkass, rich bitches are the only ones who can afford the fucking things, and I am relegated to a goddamn used Suzuki. So when I pass these fucking pieces of shit on the road who have never changed their own oil, let alone thought about pulling the cover on their own crankcase, I am made to feel inferior because they have the Harley, and I am the poser. Don’t even get me started on those goddamn sons-a-bitches that trailer their $30,000 bikes to Sturgis. Fuck that shit. Just the same, people who listen to Metallica are such bad asses and the real deal, while folks that listen to Sepultura are dirt.

Metallica’s Black Album is what it is. It is a shameless capitulation to thoughtless, privileged youth who are simply too self-absorbed to understand the world around them. Lars’s outrage against music sharing is but one indication of where these pathetic, short-haired losers are really coming from. I have a little adage that states if you are a Dallas Cowboys fan, there is a very slim likelihood that you are a decent human being. This also goes for Metallica. If you like Metallica, especially the Black Album, chances are you are somewhere between an anal wart and a festering boil on someone’s taint.

In sum, despite the reviewers that gush all over Metallica, Metallica’s Black Album is proof positive that you can put a shine on a turd. Whether they are spongy-headed reviewers or walking penises with ears in an American Eagle shirt, maggots who want to give you the impression that they are rebelling against the mainstream devour this constipated nugget with gusto. Folks with a sense of self dignity should stay away from this smoldering heap of decomposing explosive diarrhea. If you don’t, then I know what kind of person you are.

Since this is my first review, let me just briefly outline my rating system. To make this a bit more interesting, I want to create a continuum from good to bad. So, my rankings will be based on two opposing indicators. First, the good will be represented by an Indian dessert my friends have affectionately named “sweet sticky balls.” They are donut hole-sized pastries infused and soaking in an unrealistically sweet syrup. The bad will be represented by your average constipated turd nugget. The scale will progress from three sweet sticky balls to three turds.

For Metallica’s Black Album, I give it, appropriately enough for the color of the album, three turds, but where the last turd is the consistency of peanut butter and clings so desperately to your ass that when you go to wipe, it just smears all over your ass, and you spend more time wiping your shit encrusted ass than you actually do taking a shit. After listening to this album, you’ll wish you had a bidet for your ears.