|
 The
Major Lift
By
Erik Hage
I
have long thought of Metallica as a band for people
who don’t really like music—or at least “music” in the traditional,
aesthetic sense of the word. The band’s most successful stuff
has always seemed aimed more toward agitated catharsis than
anything else. I think of Metallica fans as people who like
guns, just for fun, or as sullen video-gamers with moms that
act like Sarah Palin. My own misguided stereotype is perhaps
a tribute to the timelessness of Metallica, as the band’s
first teen fans are well into their 40s by now. Sure, Metallica
themselves have become jet-setting sophisticates, but they
know who buys their albums and still dish out those empty
platitudes of inarticulate teen frustration and nihilism.
It keeps the doors of the Metallica franchise open, and there
are always going to be enough angry, “misunderstood” young
men out there.
The worst part for me came when Metallica started airing their
therapeutic laundry, trying to get in touch with their feelings
in the 2004 documentary Some Kind of Monster. If James
Hetfield was gross as a hyper-verbose, delinquent manchild
with an intermittent rage problem, he was even grosser when
trying to nurture his inner child. (Sample revelation: “I’m
afraid to get close to people . . . ’cuz I don’t know how
to do it.” Or, Lars Ulrich, pleading to James, “I don’t understand
who you are!”) Keep it behind closed doors, I say.
 Nevertheless,
my narrow view of Metallica is clearly not shared by the larger
public, which has kept Death Magnetic atop the Billboard
album chart for three weeks in a row. Some of those fans are
less than grateful, however: There is a petition going around
the Internet asking for a remix of the album, complaining
that it is too loud, compressed and distorted (since when
did Metallica fans become Eno-like auteurs of sonics?). But
maybe that move toward rawness is a good thing; the band’s
last album, St. Anger, was a swing and miss in that
direction. With longtime producer Bob Rock, the band had pushed
toward becoming a sort of U2 of metal, opting for big statements
and gratuitous dynamics. No more of that here: Metallica have
re-embraced their earlier days, prompted by zen producer Rick
Rubin, whose patented move with musicians is toward old roots
and unfussiness.
The party line was that this was a return to the speedy, pulverizing
riffology of Master of Puppets (1986), and it is in
parts, such as in the antic battery of the impressive “All
Nightmare Long.” Elsewhere, though, the slower, bracing indulgences
arise, as in “The Day That Never Comes,” which is Metallica
at their surprisingly most melodic and a return to the atmosphere
of “One” (the Grammy award-winning track from 1988). And that’s
really the rub: Death Magnetic is not simply a return
to Master of Puppets, but more a variety of shades
from the earlier days (through the late ‘80s) filtered through
the sensibilities of a more sophisticated band. Not bad, all
in all.
 All
of which transitions us nicely into the new New Kids on
the Block album, The Block. This reunion
makes sense to me (really). NKOTB lost their boy-band punchline
status years ago, as attention shifted toward predecessors
such as the Backstreet Boys and ’N Sync. And then Justin Timberlake
went and got embraced as a legit artist, opening a door for
this. But how does a man-band of near-40-year-olds pull this
off with dignity? They confront this by steeping their songs
in futuristic R&B ephemera that nods to Timberlake himself.
They also keep to steamy and sultry adult themes, and haul
in guests like hip-hopper Akon, electro dance-popper Lady
GaGa, and R&B singer-songwriter Ne-Yo. Despite all of
this, though, nothing leaps out at you, either in a really
good or really bad way. I suppose I wanted this to either
fail interestingly on the back of risk or succeed miserably.
Even “Full Service,” a collaboration with even more ancient
b-band New Edition (sans Bobby Brown), fails to spark anything
at all. Safe just ain’t going to do it.
Young Demi Lovato is a singer in the greater Jonas
Brothers universe, and the Jonas Brothers were once a band
in the greater Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana universe. Which
means she’s another singer from the Disney oligarchy. In an
atmosphere of media consolidation, Disney heads have taken
the quite natural route of grooming pop stars via their TV
programming. Soon they will create their own chart system
to rival Billboard. Anyways, as the young folks
put it, Demi was in the TV movie Camp Rock with the
Jonases, who also cowrote a bunch of tracks here.
 I
find it hard to get offended by the Jonas Brothers in the
manner I’m supposed to. For one, the music, as specious as
it sometimes may be, occupies a realm that is sort of power
pop, much like Hanson in the ’90s or the Bay City Rollers
in the ’70s. (And, hey, they write songs.) I am no more put
off by them than I am by the Archies’ “Sugar, Sugar.” But
the album in question is Lovato’s Don’t Forget, which
has a similar appeal to the Jonas clan, with power-chorded
guitars and plenty of pop snap. In fact, “La La Land” is a
genuinely appealing single with plenty of guitar crunch, Brian
May-like guitar leads, and a powerful vocal performance from
Lovato, who clearly has real chops. Your kids could do a lot
worse.
Finally, to end on a low note, we turn to James Taylor,
the prep-school educated, mental-institution weaned avatar
of flaccid folk-rock for baby boomers who have simply given
up on music. Suitably released by Starbucks, Covers is
just what you think it is: Taylor rendering lifeless such
excellent songs as the R&B classic “(I’m A) Roadrunner,”
Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues,” and “Hound Dog” (popularized
by Elvis Presley and before that, Big Mama Thornton). This
is pallid, toothless nonsense, and the execution, fleshed
out in a nearly big-band style, is crass. I’d rather listen
to a mash-up of Sarah Palin endlessly intoning “you betcha”
and “dontcha know” over Lee Greenwood. Or even a therapy-session
recording of Lars and James trying to recapture the old magic
of their friendship.
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