The four Limousine riders of the Apocalypse

Let me cut to the chase, cut the crap, and cut the meandering, often self - mythologizing introductory paragraph. Metallica recently came out with its first studio album in five years titled "St. Anger," and it is supposed to be a back-to-the-roots project, a return to former metal glories. Yeah right.

The band got crucified for releasing half-assed albums like "Load" (how could anybody stand Metallica going grunge and doing Hero of the Day and Mama Said?); "Reload" (The Unforgiven II is the most despicable sequel since Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2); and "S&M" (somebody from Metallica must have said, "Hey, let’s re-record our past metal hits with an orchestra – nobody has done it before!"). "St. Anger" is supposed to be the raw, nasty, lumbering metal beast that will rekindle interest in a band accused of being irrelevant (trends like grunge, rap metal, new garage has exiled Metallica to the musical margins), dysfunctional (bassist Jason Newsted left for nebulous reasons), and absolutely greedy, filthy-rich Scrooges (Lars and company may have won their battle with Napster and MP3 file-swapping but have lost the war in the eyes of fans and critics).

It is quite saddening. Many metalheads grew up on Metallica in the mid-‘80s and experienced going to the sordid armpits of Recto (on the seedy, sleazy, urine-smelling nooks and crannies of Cartimar), buying terribly trebly, tunog-lata bootlegs of "Kill ‘Em All" and "Ride the Lightning" with those grainy photocopied album sleeves, and hanging out in Morayta with the other longhaired rejects sick of school, authority figures and That’s Entertainment.

Kill me for being confessional: I couldn’t relate at all with my classmates in high school and early college who had a penchant for bragging about their running shoes, coño gadgets and cars bought with obscene amounts of money but had zero knowledge about things that really matter like music and art and life. However, I found affinity with doomed, death-before-disco figures who dug rock, punk, hardcore, metal and what-have-you, and who all loved Metallica, admittedly or not.

Metallica often became jump-off points for trashier fare like Testament, Metal Church, Death Angel and Sepultura, as well as darker, more brooding metal like Slayer, Carcass, Cradle of Filth or Death, a death metal band which came up with some of the most jaw-dropping arrangements in the history of recorded music (thanks, Piso, for letting me listen to the late Chuck Shuldiner’s chilling pipes and riffs). Metallica also made listeners explore the cradle of metal civilization whose proponents include Black Sabbath and Iron Maiden.

I never really got heavily into metal. To say otherwise would make me no different from former Limits ledge dancers who discovered Linkin Bizkit and suddenly started claiming they were rockers all along who dug Led Zeppelin, The Cure or Ministry. (You know who you freakin’ are!) But I was really into Metallica. In fact, I watched Metallica at the ULTRA football field alone because my friends at that time where into Mike Francis, Amy Stewart and Super Dry beer. (But to hell with them – I had a good time moshing with strangers, anyway.) And I really dug the albums from "Kill ‘Em All" to "Metallica" (more commonly known as "The Black Album").

"…And Justice For All," despite the shoddy production, is my favorite Metallica platter because of its strong political overtones. (How could a metalhead not like socially relevant tracks like Blackened, Harvester of Sorrow, And Justice For All, Frayed Ends of Sanity and One?) The One video was the first metal video I saw not to feature: a) grown men with hard-to-hold Aqua Net hair; b) impossibly disgusting pouts; c) sexy vixens like Tawny Kitaen; d) spandex pants with kitschy zebra or tiger prints; e) goofy lyrics about cherry pies and bad medicine.

For One (whose lyrics were inspired by Dalton Trumbo’s underground classic Johnny Got His Gun, about an amputee contemplating the horrors of war), Metallica made a gripping, profound video, which includes footages from the film version of Trumbo’s novel. Wait… Why do I dwell on Metallica’s past opuses? Because Metallica, after changes upon changes, wants to give us more of the same. The band got torched for slick Bob Rock productions, haircuts and crying over spilled royalties. Now, Metallica has come up with an album that is raw, shoddily produced, crude, bleak, terribly mid-rangy and angry as hell. Hey, after all the shit they went though, Lars and the rest of those grumpy old geezers have the right to be grumpy about. And the Metallica fan in me likes it.

Frantic starts off with a jackhammer riff reminiscent of "Kill ’Em All." I like how the song goes from brutally heavy to liltingly melodic in the space of a few bars, as well as how vocalist James Hetfield screams the "Frantic tick, tick, tock" line. This time, James means what he sings. Which we can’t say the same for the lame singing in those forgettable "Reload" tunes I guess even hardcore fans thought twice about downloading.

Metallica doesn’t let the intensity drop a notch in the next track, St. Anger – deftly arranged, very adventurous, for Metallica, that is, and not for progressive bands like Yes or (dig the irony) Jethro Tull. Sumkinda, lyric-wise, would fit right into the "…And Justice For All" album. Here, James sings about "lips that taste no freedom" and "ears that ring with hate."

Invisible Kid has a break that recalls the "Like God’s eyes in my headlights" break in Soundgarden’s Rusty Cage.

The verdict: It would have been better if Metallica recorded the album with new bassist Rob Trujillo (low-end wunderkind from Suicidal Tendencies and Infectious Grooves). Instead, we get mixed-down basslines from co-producer Bob Rock. Also, there are no solos in this one, which is both a good and a bad thing. We’ve always associated Metallica with grinding riffs punctuated by lightning-fast arpeggios courtesy of Kirk Hammet. Not on "St. Anger." Listeners will get the impression that the soundscapes in the album are conjured by sterile, tinny drums and one giant guitar played by six angry hands.

My favorite track in "St. Anger" is Shoot Me Again, which could be the band’s anthem during these trying times. In the tune, Hetfield sings, "All the shots I take, I spit back at you… All the shots I take, what difference did I make?"

Metallica has taken all the shots (Cliff Burton and Jason Newsted are gone, along with legions of disgruntled fans). But like a bad cowboy movie, the unforgiving protagonists James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich and Kirk Hammet are still standing. And will ride swanky Limousines into a computer-generated sunset until the coming of the Apocalypse… even if nobody gives a hoot.

RATING: 3 1/2

Crap Forty: Cream of the crap revisited

I received a lot of cream and also a lot of crap in my mailbox because of the "Cream of the Crap (Or Bad Songs Say So Much)" article, which appeared in The Philippine STAR last June 20.

First, the crap: Some letter-senders were incensed that I ditched "talented and macho artists" like that rapper who bills himself as the Eminem of the Philippines. (The gall!) Hey, I won’t mention his name lest his rabid fan let loose the Hounds of Doom upon my doorsteps – a threat from a woman who used a Yahoo address. A gal sent a letter full of garbled obscenities, exclamation points, words unfit for print because I said mean things about "Jolens" in the article. I’m starting to get the fear I’ll be clunked on the head when walking on a deserted alley by girls decorated like Christmas trees. Ah… the perils of the trade.

I only wrote the piece because I got tired of all the glowing adjectives, all the ass-kissing that is the S.O.P. in an industry where everyone is "promising" or "up and coming"; where every product is "most awaited" or "eagerly anticipated"; and where everyone is a freakin’ diva (with ridiculous titles like Divine Diva, Soul Diva, Inspirational Diva, Livin’ La Diva Loca, Asia’s Queen of Thongs, Asia’s Bong-bird, etc.). It’s good to heckle once in a while. And it’s always good therapy to expose one’s own mediocrities.

Here’s the cream, though: Some readers sent a lot of encouraging feedback. They, too, were pissed that there are a lot of aural clunkers drowning ears everywhere – in videoke joints, in strip clubs, in TV noontime shows, in Miss Mutya ng Barangay pageants, in the trebly tape decks of FX, bus and jeepney drivers who also love the Scorpions, Dan Byrd (one-hit-wonderboy who came up with Boulevard) and "Stars on 45," among other sonic shenanigans. Imagine having to endure Masculado’s entire album (yes, from f*cking track one to f*cking track six) during an infinite trip to Antipolo or Cavite.

(A disclaimer: The following comments – specifically the demolition job on crappy OPM – are from Young Star readers, so "Amir of Rap" fans please refrain from sending more hexes and hate mail to this writer. You clog up my inbox and prevent my Daily Dilbert and Nudesletter from coming through.)

Although the letter-senders agree mostly with this writer’s picks for the crème de la crap (like Chuva Choo, Choo, Pag-Ibig Ko’y Metal, Inibig Ko’y Nakatali Na, Boracay Baby, etc.), they all have the same question: How could you forget ____?

Peachy U (piu0720@yahoo.com) says, "How could you forget Eddie Peregrina’s Two Lovely Flowers, Nora Aunor’s Lollipops and Roses and that nasal version of Sad Movies from Mayor Vi?"

Capt Michael (captmikey27 @hotmail.com) laments, "Please, can we just get on making real songs." That will happen, Michael, as soon as we start having real singers (and not just junkies for fame and godly money), and as soon as we start having real entertainment. Which is never.

Forky Nikki (almon23@yahoo.com) mentions the words "silicone," "album," "cockroach" and "Rica Peralejo" in one sentence. Believe me, it won’t flatter the busty babe.

Karen Cabrera (karentayaocabrera @hotmail.com) muses on why Tootsie Guevarra, Champagne Morales (a Tootsie clone, she says), Lilet, Keempee de Leon and Cesar Montano were given record deals. She’s pretty sure only 1.75 percent of the nation’s population bought their albums. Who… moms, aunts and solid fan club presidents?

Pia Pascua-Baia (paolo.baia@ fastwebnet.it) who lives in Italy says she became homesick when she read the article, adding that she misses the Philippines – traffic, crappy songs and all. "I remember waking up every Sunday morning to that damn jukebox playing right across our house in Cubao… and the damn song was Eddie Peregrina’s Memories of our Dreams!"

Margeaux Lopez (czarkol@yahoo.com) points out that I left out Masculados and that horrible, horrible anthem, Bakit Mama, in my list. Ever saw the biceps and triceps on those dudes? Baka nila ako kurutin eh, that’s why.

Dya55e (i_am_messed_up@ijust don’tcare.com) asks, "What does spaghetti pataas and spaghetti pababa mean anyway?" Once anybody answers this question, it would signal the sequel to the Golden Age of Enlightenment. Much like somebody stumbling upon the secret name of God.

Christian Deles (ozzy_deloso@ hotmail.com) says he agrees that there’s so much shitty pop out there, adding that "watching Meteor Garden or listening to F4 is like having a lobotomy." Hey, Christian, it’s just a vicious cycle. Remember how everybody went bonkers over Menudo? Even Lea Salonga had a duet with Robby freakin’ Rosa. Yesterday’s Menudo is today’s chop suey. F4 is so huge these days a politician even directed his fire-and-brimstone speech against the group. I guess his premise was – we are a sovereign people, we have the right to write and record our own crappy songs, and we don’t need the help of foreigners who want to share with the world their equally crappy songs.

Do you, in certain moments, feel as if you are living inside an absurd Carlo J. Caparas flick with the soundtrack by April Boy Regino? Ah… wake me when all this is over.

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Thanks to those who sent e-mail. Special thanks to my panadero neighbors for unknowingly providing me the material for the "Cream of the Crap" article. Na-memorize ko na ‘yung "Unang Putok" album ng Sexbomb at "Best of Aegis," iba naman! For comments, suggestions, curses and invocations, e-mail iganja@hotmail.com.