Metallica

We’ve all been aching to see if producer Rick Rubin — the man with the magic ears — could save Metallica from a fate worse than death. Seems like he left them in purgatory. Death Magnetic can be summed up as St. Anger Metallica trying to write/perform …And Justice For All Metallica; it’s a collection of cool riffs that get mangled and go nowhere fast. While some songs are moving, at points, there’s just not enough meat on the bone to save these starving dogs. Hetfield has lost any semblance of the throaty roar that established him as one of metal’s coolest front-men, there’s an absolute lack of bottom-heavy chug riffs, as perfected by, well, Metallica, and although Hammett solos again after the complete absence of on St. Anger, his enthusiasm is comparable to a kid in a candy store with an unlimited budget; he freaks out and forgets to make a point. Instead of churning out a great record, Rubin was reduced to trying to push the non-suckiest aspects to the forefront. One wants to console Metallica like toddlers who lost the soccer game. Nice try, boys. It’s the effort, not the results that count, right?