Metallica: St. Anger

By RUSSELL BAILLIE

(Herald rating: * * * *)

Poor old Metallica. Even the US military won't let them get past 1991's "Black" album. To the objection of the band, interrogators have been using the mega-anthem Enter Sandman to break the will of Iraqi captives.

Boy, one day you're trying to fight the future of internet music distribution, the next you're an unwitting participant in the hunt for those weapons of mass destruction.

Such is life for what is still the biggest brand name in metal who have been up against it of late. It has not just been the disastrous PR that came from their legal fight against Napster - and getting angry at your fans is never an advisable career move. They stop buying the black T-shirts, too.

Not that they exactly warmed to the last couple of albums like Load and its sequel Re-Load, seen largely as attempts to keep the crossover listenership they gained on the multi-million Black album

There's been the acrimonious departure of bassist Jason Newsted - longtime producer Bob Rock handled four-string duties on this before the arrival of permanent replacement Rob Trujillo - and there was a stint in a rehab clinic for singer-guitarist James Hetfield, while the whole band went through therapy sessions before heading back into the studio.

Could it be any worse for a once world-beating rock group with its roots in the 80s? Well you could be in Guns'n'Roses.

But if Metallica are a spent force, no one's told the band behind St. Anger.

Eleven songs and 75 minutes long, it's a big unwieldy beast of an album, a return of sorts to the band of the 80s - all stop-start arrangements, jagged riffs, bellicose vocals, artillery barrage drumming and a thorough disrespect for the conciseness and tunefulness which broke them out of headbangerland in the first place.

That might be a case of too much, too late. But it's a thrilling affair for its sheer musical muscle, raw production. The sound of much of the album is disconcerting up against Metallica's 90s efforts.

The drums ping with tautness, the guitars are all mid-range graunch with tones, that on Some Kind of Monster at least, sound like they wouldn't be out of place on a Sonic Youth record.

But leading the charge is Hetfield who gets into several shouting matches with those demons of his. That's at its most battle-of-the bottle on Sweet Amber, Dirty Window ("I drink from the cup of denial" and the opener Frantic (which comes with the chant "my lifestyle determines my death style").

On Invisible Kid, there are further hints of that unhappy childhood which also figures in that prisoner-frightening number.

If that sounds all a bit self-pitying, it's not exactly wallowing in it. There are no ballads, though some of the verses are slow enough to be - that's before Metallica once again drop their hefty clutch and roar off yet again.

Perhaps the most exceptional gear-grinder is the title track, which swerves, from thoughtful to towering into a jackhammer sprint with enough force to frighten the piercings off any Linkin Park fans. If their attention spans are up to it.

Label: Vertigo