If someone were to ask me, free of any context, if I generally like Metallica, I would say “yes.” There’s no denying that they are one of the most successful metal acts of all time, and thanks to my college freshman-year roommate I went through a spell where I was really into them. Now, however, they aren’t one of my favorite bands, but occasionally “Battery” or “Blackened,” or even “Fuel” goes down very well. Yet over the past decade, for a band that built their reputation on aggression and speed, the San Francisco thrashers have felt strangely inert.

Metallica is a victim of their own success. They are essentially the U2 of metal – an act which at one point was genuinely on the vanguard of their genre, then over decades of extreme success began to feel overexposed and played out, displaying pretensions while lacking the edge that made them vital in the first place. When everything you release receives (at least commercial) success, over time it’s easy to become comfortable, surrounded by yes-men, and assume that success is inevitable. 

That brings us to ‘tallica’s 2023 release 72 Seasons, their 13th full-length overall. The title comes from the thought that a person experiences 72 seasons over the course of their first 18 years of life, and during that time grows into the person that they are. It’s a nice sentiment, one that leads you to expect some thoughtful introspection from frontman James Hetfield. And this is true – 72 Seasons puts Hetfield’s lyrics to the fore, and while they are typically self-lacerating, they are also laced with a new bit of acceptance, if not outright hope. Since the mid-90s, Hetfield has really carried the rest of the band on the strength of his songwriting and underrated singing (not to mention his lauded machine-gun rhythm guitar), and getting a glimpse into his evolving turgid psyche is one of the main draws of this record. 

In fact, Hetfield’s contributions are the only real draws of this record. Before I even pressed play, I knew exactly what it would sound like: super compressed production, “heavy” without any consequence, and overlong songs on an overlong album. Reader, this is exactly what I got. Ever since their 2008 return-to-form “comeback” Death Magnetic, every Metallica release has had the same production. Yes it’s meaty. Yes it’s clear. It also saps the songs of any real personality. Yet even within this standard sound, most of 72 Seasons feels leaden, with plodding riffs and a distracting drum mix. [On that note, Lars Ulrich must force his drums to be higher in the mix than they have any right to be in order to suit his ego; there is no other explanation for such consistently baffling drum sounds throughout their career.] Each track on the record would probably sound cool if heard in isolation, but after 77 minutes the whole becomes a slog with hardly any distinguishing qualities. Their last album, 2016’s Hardwired…to Self-Destruct sounds positively feral in comparison. One can’t help but look to their Eighties work, which gives the instrumentals more room to breathe and, while not as polished, contain much more energy. Each track feels distinct from the rest, which also speaks to the band’s collective ambition that has waned over the ensuing decades. Truly, the 1986 loss of prog-minded founding bassist Cliff Burton hurts more and more with each successive release. 

With such boring production, the limitations of the group become more apparent. Lars is famously one of the most technically limited drummers in metal; Kirk Hammet is a competent but unextraordinary lead player; Robert Trujillo is forced to abandon any of the funk he became known for in Suicidal Tendencies and Infectious Grooves to fit into his new band’s march-step thud. 

It’s no coincidence that the most immediate song on the record is lead single “Lux Aeterna,” a quick 3-minute blast that gets in and gets out. The other standout song is closer “Inamorata,” which sees the band dipping their toes into doom and includes a funky bass breakdown. It’s the only unique aspect on the record. Everything else grinds along far longer than it needs to, cycling through the same riffs that sound strangely familiar to what has come before. Musically and lyrically, 72 Seasons is like if every song on Load and Reload were twice as long. In short, Metallica needs a good producer. Someone to edit as well as light a creative fire that spurs more risks. 

I get that after a certain point, every band winds up with a devoted fan base who will appreciate everything they put out. They don’t need to win over new fans, or please casual fans, because they have legions of die-hards who love the basic tenets of the band’s sound and will enjoy anything that gives them more of it. There certainly are groups that are like this for me. It seems that Metallica is not one of them. Funny, because their first 5 albums are absolute heaters – undeniable metal classics that still hold up today. I think their “commercial” Nineties period has a handful of very strong songs, and even the maligned St. Anger holds up better than its reputation suggests. But 72 Seasons just feels obligatory. It may actually be the most boring album they’ve ever put out. And it makes me wonder if, no matter how committed the band members may feel personally, the world of metal has simply left them behind.

Rating:

2/5 Rock-On Devil Horns