Metallica
Death Magnetic

THE REVIEW

Let's get this straight right away, it was practically impossible to fall any lower than the trilogy "Load," "Reload," and "St. Anger," so from this point of view, the 'Tallica were starting with this "bonus" in mind.

Bob Rock abdicating in favor of Rick Rubin at the helm, the revival of the old logo, and a web-based promotion with riff snippets and "stolen" studio videos only served to create further curiosity around the event. The little that could be grasped seemed to chase away the dark clouds filled with curses aimed at the 4 billionaires of Frisco. Perhaps this time is really the right time...

At first listen, you smile like a child: sharp sound, finally a snare drum with a snare wire and Kirk Hammet's guitar doing its job again. It matters little if, while listening, you encounter riffs of "Loadian" origin or titles like "Unforgiven III" (of which we'd really love to understand the sense, given that it has little or nothing in common with the previous chapters). You finish listening to the album and think that this "Death Magnetic" has really driven away the ghosts of the recent past. You're convinced that Metallica have returned to doing what they knew how to do damn well. However...

However, you think back to the album you just listened to and realize that you struggle to remember even twenty consecutive seconds of any track. You realize that James Hetfield probably left his voice between the lines of the "Black Album." You realize that this "Death Magnetic," composed of an avalanche of riffs and tracks that stretch beyond six/seven minutes in length, perhaps has neither head nor tail. You listen to it again, and this time all the good feelings of the "first time" give way to the truth. And the truth is notoriously ruthless: many, too many deja-vu, are present in these tracks. It's not enough to convince yourself with concepts like "trademark" or "Metallica style," much less an anachronistic "Bay Area sound." This is a "copy-paste" album by a band plagiarizing itself. 

You put the CD back in its case, almost bidding it farewell as if you're certain you won't be seeing it for a long time. And in the meantime, you curse the moment you swiped the ATM card to pour a little hay into the vast barn of a band that - let's be honest - having run out of ideas (and probably the will) is scraping by, clawing at the bottom of an already rather worn-out barrel.