Metallica - Hardwired...to Self-Destruct

Pitchfork 65

The past twenty five years haven’t exactly been kind to Metallica. Ever since their mainstream-rock apotheosis on 1991’s Metallica, they’ve faced a quarter-century losing streak: the bloated hard rock of Load, Reload, and Garage Inc., the snoozy live album-cum-orchestral-experiment S&M, the migraine-inducing ineptitude of St. Anger, and the recycled rage of Death Magnetic. In 2011, they teamed up with Lou Reed for Lulu, a collaborative concept album regarded by many as music’s answer to The Room—if Tommy Wiseau’s classic was twice as ambitious and half as competent—and the band’s undeniable low point (and that’s even with the tell-all masochism of 2003’s documentary Some Kind of Monster).

Money, fame, age, a lack of passion: Critics have floated several culprits for the mediocrity of latter-day Metallica. But as drummer Lars Ulrich suggested in a recent Rolling Stone interview, the wellspring of the band’s foibles also forms the basis of Metallica writ large. “The thing that I love about Metallica is that we’re very impulsive,” Ulrich said, before tacking on a subtle mea culpa: “That impulsivity occasionally bites us in the ass, because we jump before we know where we're landing.”

And so, five years after hooking up with Lou, and eight years after their last album proper, Metallica have taken yet another leap with Hardwired...to Self-Destruct, a two-disc collection demarcated not by a leap into the unknown, but into the halcyon days of their youth nearly three decades ago during thrash’s primordial period, when “impulsivity” amounted to unpredictable fretwork, breakneck rhythms, and discarded pretenses. Like Death Magnetic, the record attempts a self-conscious return to form; the only difference is that this time the band sound like they’re actually trying, and–dare I say it–maybe even having a bit of fun.

Hardwired...to Self-Destruct is a rare Metallica album without any Kirk Hammett songwriting credits, a shift owed not to Some Kind of Monster-type bickering, but flat-out carelessness: The guitarist lost an iPhone containing roughly 250 riffs, leaving him with little to contribute to the think tank by the time Metallica began cutting the album. Temporarily demoted from puppet master to personnel, Hammett readily embraces–relishes, even–his role as primary ambassador for Metallica nostalgia. Hardwired… stands as the guitarist’s most extensive show of muscle since the self-titled days. From the soaring, bluesy triplets on “Atlas, Rise!” to the fleet-footed stampedes driving “Spit Out the Bone,” his playing strikes a winning compromise between precision and wildness, lending the otherwise one-dimensional mix (undermined primarily by the anemic drum tracking, which renders Ulrich’s bass kicks little more than footsie taps) some welcome textural spontaneity.

As for spontaneity on a broader level—don’t head into Hardwired... hoping for progressive surprises or unanticipated turns. Its twelve songs–the vast majority of which extend well past the five-minute mark–fall into two categories: galloping nods to Ride the Lightning, of which the first disc is primarily composed, and doomier mid-tempo cuts à la Sabbath, which make up the bulk of the second. The LP’s highlights—“Hardwired,” “Moth Into Flame,” “Atlas, Rise!” all fall into the former camp, front-loading the record with fire. The second disc, by contrast, is a slog through nondescript, uniform chug, devoid of dynamics or instrumental nuance: “Confusion”’s dull roar proves practically indistinguishable from the slow-churning gyre of “ManUNkind” or “Here Comes Revenge,” and the clunky mainframe of “Murder One” borders on incoherent. Fortunately, they finish strong with “Spit Out the Bone,” a galvanizing, hyper-speed premonition of a world razed to the ground by man’s greed for shiny playthings (like, say, Hammett’s iPhone): “Plug into me and terminate/Accelerate, Utopian solution/Finally cure the Earth of Man.” A little less than three minutes in, the band automize fiercely, careening off the leaden path into a pummeling breakdown unheard since the glory days.

Elsewhere, James Hetfield redeems himself as Metallica’s growling figurehead with his strongest work in decades. The band’s 2014 tribute medley to fallen star Ronnie James Dio (which appears on the deluxe edition of Hardwired…) has clearly left a lasting impression on the 53-year-old, vocally and lyrically: whereas past releases found Hetfield howling the blues and roaringly introducing himself as literal furniture, Hardwired… marks a return to the matter-of-fact, staccato doomsday proselytizing of the band’s heyday. When he barks “We’re so fucked/Shit out of luck,” on the title track, teeth bared, fists clenched, we feel the pulse of his reckless youth ever-so-slightly—and for a second, the multi-millionaire feels like one of us, shaking in timely trepidation at the realization of the world’s greatest fears. And yet, even as he manages to reign in the cringeworthy wailing exhibited on St. Anger and the Load albums, he can’t resist backsliding into melodrama—obnoxiously extending out his syllables on “Now That We’re Dead” (“Now that we’re dead my DEEE-AHH we can be TOGETH-AHH”)–and on “Dream No More,” letting out a grunge-era whine that sounds like a failed impersonation of late legend Scott Weiland.

Make no mistake—Hardwired... is easily Metallica’s best album since 1991’s landmark self-titled LP, a victory on par with Weezer’s White Album for comeback of the year. But as was the case with Cuomo and company, the album fails to convince non-diehards what, exactly, we look for from Metallica these days. Even after repeat listens, one can’t shake the feeling that in 2016, the legends’ students have become their teachers in terms of both sheer volume and political gravitas; those looking for fresh thrash, in its purest, most primal form are better off listening to the likes of Vektor, Power Trip, or Iron Reagan, who wave the torch of their forebears with considerably more gusto. Still, the band couldn’t return at a better time: when you flip on the news and see a narcissistic, trigger-fingered, despotic cheetoh at the podium—a Metallica song come to life—there’s no denying that the accessible aggro makes for a surprisingly potent balm, not to mention an enjoyable form of escapism.