Metallica
Hardwired... To Self Destruct

Welcome to all ladies and gentlemen of Debaser!

There's not much to say about this Metallica album, but it's December and we're trying to be all nicer, but be careful: not dumber. Providence has it that, for my fortune, the duration of this crappy piece is only an hour and ten minutes. If you add the deluxe disc, it's another hour and twenty minutes; it would be blasphemy to say that all these minutes are beautiful, but even during a tedious job, sooner or later you'll end up with a burn.

I intended to do a track-by-track review but my patience ran out before I could finish, so take this invective against the American band.

Dear mother of God, James, I would like to squeeze those cheeks that your mother gave you until you have to call Jesus Christ and all the saints to get me off, but do you really think we're all a bunch of idiots? Would you decide to end it here and go home with your ears touching the ground and get pampered by your wife so you have at least one satisfaction in life? Your friend Lars, look, has become a sloth: to make up for the speed he doesn't have, he plays with the drumsticks like the kids from Treviso who spin around the square. I'm sorry, but where did they find Kirk? He might be the only one who would change things in this crappy group and yet he stays on the sidelines, grooming his curls and playing along with Trujillo who by now is only good at moving his head, he's probably bald with what's left of his gray matter bouncing around.

I would see Metallica well at the Signoresa fair next to Pike Floyd cover bands and ballroom dancing, or at the Odyssey in the room dedicated to the '80s, spinning like a top between Michael Jackson and Bryan Adams. This abomination is like eating minestrone with a fork, like staring at your friend's hot mom and not jerking off to her underwear, like moving a horse back and forth on a chessboard.

I'm angry, really angry, don't think they've made another turd out of the bucket, I'm drained, I hoped at some point they would have vomited money, but like with Silvio I was wrong, no one finds money disgusting as long as they can scrape it from foolish and dumb people who think metal is the ultimate music: are you kidding me? With all the good stuff in the world, do you really intend to listen to another ball-busting album from Metallica? Before these guys produce anything good in their lives, I could cut your veins lengthwise with a spoon while I have a broom handle you-know-where and crawl on the ground at the same time, do you want me to listen to an hour of crap music? At least limit it to thirty minutes, I mean, limit it, Christ the King.

So ladies and gentlemen, let it be, if you ever liked Metallica, avoid this muck. If you never liked them, I doubt you'll like this either. If St. Anger is proof of God's existence, then go to hell, bite your ears off, put greenery on your eyes, and drink bleach on occasion. Excuse me but now I'm going to make myself some polenta with sausage and cooked cheese.