Metallica: Some Kind of Drama
WARNING: This is a rant dissing Metallica.
Dave, hardcore Metallica fan and sometime player of heavy metal, and I, hardcore Metallica loather since Napster and sometime listener of rap, R&B, pop, and country music, sat down and watched the documentary "Metallica: Some kind of Monster" last night. The thing starts in 2001 and wraps up in 2003 as the guys start their St. Anger tour. Why the guys ever allowed the shit to be aired, I'll never know. Oh wait, I do know: MONEY.
Oh, Lord. I sure enjoyed watching a bunch of pudgy middle-aged family guys run around like Prince in "Purple Rain." These dudes have more scratch than God, tons of success, fame, fortune, etc., but damn, what a bunch of whining babies. Let me sum up:
Lars: Blatantly and unashamedly a cowardly asshole. Posturing, pacing, smacking gum, deliberately ignoring or refusing to participate in the songwriting process to express his disdain for James Hetfield. At one point, he decides to sell his huge art collection to "move on" to the next decade in his life. At a fancy-pantsy museum, he watches from an executive suite while his paintings are auctioned off. He drinks about 20 glasses of champagne to dull the "pain" of selling his collection. All the paintings sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars, with one painting alone fetching $5,000,000. His wife comforts him, saying, "They came to visit us for a while, and now it's time for them to move on." Poor Lars tries to put on a brave face, but we, the viewers, know how tough it can be to receive millions and millions of dollars to cleanse to soul.
James: His assholery is generally more subdued than Lars. He really digs on stomping out of rooms and slamming doors as hard as he can (at his age). To deal with his angst and pain, he rides around in souped-up mini hotrods and collecting speeding tickets. He also enjoys racing to his daughter's ballet class on his custom-built chopper. He heads off to rehab for a year, bringing production on their album to a halt, and when he returns he can only rehearse 4 hours a day. However, he insists that no one else work on the album while he's gone, because he feels that "decisions are being made without me." The mousy guitar player says, "That's how I've felt for the past 15 years." Lars struts around smacking gum and calling it "ridiculous" that he can't listen to their songs if James isn't there. James stomps off and slams door.
Mousy Guitar Guy: What a douche. I can't even remember his name. He talks at one point about trying to be "egoless." He stares off into the distance of his multi-million dollar ranch, watching his multi-million dollar stallions gallop across his vast acreage. Spends most of the film sitting there passively or saying, "Come on, guys. Come on, guys."
Here's the feeling you get by the end of the film: These guys are in it for the money, and the money ALONE. These guys are old, their manager's old, everybody around them is old and rich. James and Lars are barely able to get through the album, both expressing that they really don't like (DESPISE) working with each other. Hell, James can't even work over 4 hours a day so he can spend more time with his kids. WTF? What have these fuckers got to say after all these years?
The real kicker comes when they make the video to St. Anger at San Quinton prison. Are you shitting me? Are you really shitting me? These fuckers need to be making a video at a Hollywood PTA meeting or a Donald Trump's yacht. Maybe Bill Gate's house. Ol' James gets on the mike and tells these hardened criminals, "I understand anger." No you don't Asshole. maybe you did years ago, but not now. You don't know or understand dick about any real human emotion.
Anyway, this review is coming from somebody who despises Metallica and Lars in particular. I laughed my ass off at these fuckers the whole movie. But poor Dave. He sat there, stricken, through the whole thing. Sometime she would just shake his head. Other times he would quietly mutter, "Oh my god." Later he said he was glad he watched the film because it was a process of killing his heroes. Yeah, they're dead all right. At one point all these old fuckers are sitting in a boardroom trying to decide what name will be the most commercially successful for the album. They decide on St. Anger.
Dave suggested St. Drama. Right on.
Dave, hardcore Metallica fan and sometime player of heavy metal, and I, hardcore Metallica loather since Napster and sometime listener of rap, R&B, pop, and country music, sat down and watched the documentary "Metallica: Some kind of Monster" last night. The thing starts in 2001 and wraps up in 2003 as the guys start their St. Anger tour. Why the guys ever allowed the shit to be aired, I'll never know. Oh wait, I do know: MONEY.
Oh, Lord. I sure enjoyed watching a bunch of pudgy middle-aged family guys run around like Prince in "Purple Rain." These dudes have more scratch than God, tons of success, fame, fortune, etc., but damn, what a bunch of whining babies. Let me sum up:
Lars: Blatantly and unashamedly a cowardly asshole. Posturing, pacing, smacking gum, deliberately ignoring or refusing to participate in the songwriting process to express his disdain for James Hetfield. At one point, he decides to sell his huge art collection to "move on" to the next decade in his life. At a fancy-pantsy museum, he watches from an executive suite while his paintings are auctioned off. He drinks about 20 glasses of champagne to dull the "pain" of selling his collection. All the paintings sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars, with one painting alone fetching $5,000,000. His wife comforts him, saying, "They came to visit us for a while, and now it's time for them to move on." Poor Lars tries to put on a brave face, but we, the viewers, know how tough it can be to receive millions and millions of dollars to cleanse to soul.
James: His assholery is generally more subdued than Lars. He really digs on stomping out of rooms and slamming doors as hard as he can (at his age). To deal with his angst and pain, he rides around in souped-up mini hotrods and collecting speeding tickets. He also enjoys racing to his daughter's ballet class on his custom-built chopper. He heads off to rehab for a year, bringing production on their album to a halt, and when he returns he can only rehearse 4 hours a day. However, he insists that no one else work on the album while he's gone, because he feels that "decisions are being made without me." The mousy guitar player says, "That's how I've felt for the past 15 years." Lars struts around smacking gum and calling it "ridiculous" that he can't listen to their songs if James isn't there. James stomps off and slams door.
Mousy Guitar Guy: What a douche. I can't even remember his name. He talks at one point about trying to be "egoless." He stares off into the distance of his multi-million dollar ranch, watching his multi-million dollar stallions gallop across his vast acreage. Spends most of the film sitting there passively or saying, "Come on, guys. Come on, guys."
Here's the feeling you get by the end of the film: These guys are in it for the money, and the money ALONE. These guys are old, their manager's old, everybody around them is old and rich. James and Lars are barely able to get through the album, both expressing that they really don't like (DESPISE) working with each other. Hell, James can't even work over 4 hours a day so he can spend more time with his kids. WTF? What have these fuckers got to say after all these years?
The real kicker comes when they make the video to St. Anger at San Quinton prison. Are you shitting me? Are you really shitting me? These fuckers need to be making a video at a Hollywood PTA meeting or a Donald Trump's yacht. Maybe Bill Gate's house. Ol' James gets on the mike and tells these hardened criminals, "I understand anger." No you don't Asshole. maybe you did years ago, but not now. You don't know or understand dick about any real human emotion.
Anyway, this review is coming from somebody who despises Metallica and Lars in particular. I laughed my ass off at these fuckers the whole movie. But poor Dave. He sat there, stricken, through the whole thing. Sometime she would just shake his head. Other times he would quietly mutter, "Oh my god." Later he said he was glad he watched the film because it was a process of killing his heroes. Yeah, they're dead all right. At one point all these old fuckers are sitting in a boardroom trying to decide what name will be the most commercially successful for the album. They decide on St. Anger.
Dave suggested St. Drama. Right on.