People often ask me “Mike, what’s your grudge with Metallica? And why did you throw them out of your house then sic your Chihuahua on them after paying their cabby to skedaddle to Peoria, leaving them to run two miles down a creepy country road to the nearest house, whose owner just happens to have the tri-state area’s largest collection of chainsaws and hockey masks?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “It could be the football tough meatloaf they brought as a housewarming gift. Or the way they always refer to themselves in the third person. ‘Metallica loves your sofa throw cushions.’ ‘Metallica really likes what you’ve done with the breakfast nook.’ And let’s not forget ‘Metallica is wondering if those blueberry muffins are homemade.'” Which really pisses me off. If Metallica wants a blueberry muffin, Metallica should just come out and ask.
But I have more important reasons, which I’ll get to after saying I felt really guilty for nearly have them sawed into convenient-to-eat pieces. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Metallica were instrumental in the development of thrash metal. It’s as if they’d said, “Metal’s great and all, but it would be even greater if we turned it into a funny car.” In short they combined metal’s massive tonnage with punk velocity, and ended up with a Tyrannosaurus Rex capable of running the fifty-yard dash in six seconds flat.
Given this stupendous accomplishment–and stupendous achievement it is–I decided to invite the foursome back to my place to apologize and explain the reasons for my inexcusable behavior. Surprising, the band accepted my invitation. (They’re very nice guys.) Which is how Metallica ended up sitting on my couch eating blueberry muffins while I sat across from them with my Caligula of a Chihuahua sitting sphinxlike on my lap, silently baring his fangs.
“Look,” I said, “the reason you guys get my goat is you’re so damned earnest. You have no sense of humor. Most people don’t associate metal with levity, but I do. This is why I love hair metal over hairless metal. The metal bands I love make me laugh. Poison, Kix, and Van Halen take their music very seriously, but they have a sense of humor about it. David Lee Roth is one of the funniest human beings on the planet. But where’s the funny with you guys? You may as well be Cotton Mather wearing one of those funny hats with belt buckle on it.”
“Granted it’s a character flaw of mine. Most metalheads–especially the younger ones–are looking for ear-bleeding music that reflects the angst of growing up in a fucked-up society where injustice reigns and they have to do homework. That may be your demographic, but it bums me out. I’ve been listening to “My Friend of Misery” from 1991’s Metallica and it makes me want to throw myself into the Le Brea tar pits and drown, although I’m pretty sure that’s impossible. Sure, life’s miserable and you have every right to be angry. Everyone but optimists—who are to be pitied because they’re mentally ill—is angry. The secret of life is to laugh in its face. Moping only encourages it.”
The band daintily ate their muffins and listened to my diatribe. “Fantastic mouth feel,” said drummer Lars Ulrich.” “I usually only eat the tops,” said lead guitarist Kirk Hammett, “but I’m making an exception for this one.” “Scrumptious,” said vocalist James Hetfield. Bass player Robert Trujillo had his mouth full and kept mum. It was obvious they hadn’t listened to a word I’d said.
“Can I lodge another small complaint?” I asked. “Shoot, said Hetfield, picking a blueberry from his muffin and popping into his mouth. ”Your first album, 1983’s Kill ‘Em All, is a no-frills nonstop thrash extravaganza. On the albums after that you slow things down and begin adding frills. Baroque acoustic guitars, real “Dust in the Wind” stuff. There’s an orchestra on “Nothing Else Matters,” for Christ’ sake. And what sounds to me like a sitar on “Wherever I May Roam.” And what’s with the marching band drums that open “The Struggle Within”? And is that a flugelhorn I hear at the beginning of “The Unforgiven”? They’re not sophisticated. They’re gargoyles on a 1977 Camaro Z28.”
“Isn’t creative development the point of making music?” asked Hammett, brushing muffin crumbs off his lap. “Sure,” I replied. “But an orchestra? Motörhead wouldn’t have been caught dead with an orchestra.” “You have a point,” said Trujillo. “But that’s only because Lemmy had a pathological fear of oboes.”
“Well okay boys,” I said. “Sorry again for chasing you out of the house. Stop by again, I’ll bake some banana nut muffins.”
“Metallica’s favorite,” said Metallica,” as Caligula started to growl.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B-
