Metallica: This Monster Lives

by Joe Berlinger

  Courtesy of Bob Richman

  During the early days of recording at the Presidio, I had found the new music to be less than impressive, the sound of a band consciously avoiding resting on the sound it pioneered but not finding a compelling new direction. Even then, however, there were clues that Metallica was determined to do whatever it took to make this album sound different, including letting the universe issue its cryptic commands. One example: Lars one day accidentally left his snare off the snare drum. Without the rattle a snare produces, the drum sounded like he was pounding on a coffee can. Lars liked the effect and decided to keep the snare off for most of the album.1 By the end, Metallica emerged with an album that truly sounds like no other mainstream rock album out there. St. Anger’s jarring, unorthodox sonics alienated a lot of people, Metallica fans included, and the reviews were decidedly mixed. Bob Rock, who actually wound up doing some interviews to defend his production decisions, proudly compares the sound of St. Anger to Iggy Pop’s infamous Raw Power—“which many people say has the worst mix ever,” he says today with a chuckle. “Just recently, I was doing some edits on ‘Some Kind of Monster,’ and I was shocked by how it sounded. It’s just really, really different.”

  Raw Power isn’t the only controversial album St. Anger evokes. Lyrically, it’s like a metal version of John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band, released in 1970, soon after the Beatles broke up. Before you reject the analogy as ludicrous (if not blasphemous), consider that Hetfield and Ulrich are to metal what Lennon and McCartney were to, well, pretty much all of rock-and-roll. Both albums document the singers’ painful but necessary transitions between two stages of life, and both albums are informed by therapeutic processes. For Lennon, primal-scream therapy led him to write lines like “I don’t believe in Beatles / I just believe in me.” “Of course the lyrics are crude psychotherapeutic clichés,” the critic Robert Christgau wrote of the album when it was released. “That’s just the point, because they’re also true, and John wants to make clear that right now truth is more important than subtlety, taste, art, or anything else.” You could say the same thing about James Hetfield and St. Anger lines like “Do I have the strength to know how I’ll go / Can I find it inside to deal with what I shouldn’t know?”, “Stop to warm at karmas burning,” “I want my anger to be healthy,” and “Hard to see clear / Is it me or is it fear?” Clearly influenced by time spent with Phil and in rehab, these are blunt sentiments driven by intense need, as well as urgent communiqués to everyone who had spent twenty years watching James Hetfield slowly kill himself. Subtlety isn’t the point. As Bob puts it, “James was rebuilding his life and his band. He didn’t have months to work on lyrics.”2

  Bob augmented the naked emotion of James’s lyrics by not doing any of the production tricks that make records sound artificially perfect, such as “correcting” the vocals and making the drums sound uniform. But despite its wartsand-all lo-fi quality, building this monster wasn’t a haphazard process. One more way in which St. Anger is paradoxical is that it’s very much a product of modern recording techniques, specifically editing software like Pro Tools. The songs may sound off-the-cuff, but they were painstakingly assembled from hundreds of hours of music. During the same months when we were killing ourselves, trying to turn hundreds of hours of footage into Some Kind of Monster, Metallica was trying to construct “Some Kind of Monster” and the rest of St. Anger out of hundreds hours of music.

  It’s interesting that Bob describes the album as “honest.” It’s yet another example of the way the processes of Metallica making the album, us making the film, and Phil conducting therapy all intertwined. Metallica were trying to make the most honest record of their career, their first real group project. Bruce and I were trying, as always, to be honest and responsible as stewards of Metallica’s story, and we were also trying to be more honest with each other following our painful breakup. Phil welcomed our cameras in his sessions because he thought it made the therapy more honest. We all became so close that it was inevitable that one process would affect the others. St. Anger surely wouldn’t be the same if James hadn’t been going through therapy while making it. And if Phil is correct that our cameras kept therapy honest, it stands to reason that we had an effect, albeit an indirect one, on the album.

  Did we make it more “honest”? I’ll let the band and the fans decide that, but I was struck by something that James said one day when C.O.C.’s Pepper Keenan was in the studio. Bob was talking about how he thought part of the reason the material was so strong was that he had forced the band to make quick decisions about the album rather than agonize over them. (This was shortly after they’d settled on the name St. Anger.) James smiled and nodded. “I remember that day you said, ‘Here—here’s a piece of paper!’ And I was going, ‘Fuck you, no way!’ And you were persistent about that. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was like, I can’t hide. You know, I’ve got these damn cameras, too. It took all of that to make a shift in me. In my head, I thought that was pretty much impossible. But now that the shift has happened, I mean, it was painful. I felt alone and on the spot, and it brought up a lot of stuff from the past. But the growth has been amazing. If you’re gonna fight it, maybe it’s because there’s something to be gained by the growth.”

  The pressure of completing St. Anger fell on everyone, but Lars seemed to feel it the most. You could really see how Lars feels a responsibility to make sure everything in Metallica runs smoothly “You gonna coach the solo?” Bob teasingly asked him one day in the control room, as Kirk struggled on the other side of the glass.

  “Well, that’s worked for eighteen years,” Lars said.

  “Kirk’s all grown up now,” James said. “You gotta let it go.”

  During the hectic final months of recording, I realized how much of the crucial task of editing and arranging Metallica songs falls to Lars. “I’m really starting to feel the pressure,” he admitted one day. “I’m realizing it’s starting to affect my moods.” He’d been staying at the studio late, into the night assembling various edits of songs.

  Courtesy of Bob Richman

  “I wonder how that’s working for you and how we can help,” James said. “We don’t want to be stuck at the end trying to rush these last few songs. I feel like this is sort of a self-imposed hell, you know?”

  “Please understand,” Lars said, “there is a direct correlation between the amount of time it takes to edit a song and how much material there is. So on ‘Frantic,’ where there were thirty-seven minutes, give or take a minute, it comes together like a dream. It’s the creative stuff that takes the time. It’s the donkey-work. There’s fourteen different ‘Invisible Kid’ riffs. You could just sit there and say, ‘Okay, we’ll take number seven and make the most of it. But if you want to ensure that number seven truly is the best of those fourteen, that’s what takes time. When you’re dealing with six hours of recorded music, like we are with ‘Monster,’ it takes a long time to select the best bits, the best 10 percent of the track. So it is me in my self-imposed hell, telling myself that I can weed through all of it, on behalf of everybody.”

  It was a dizzying period for all of us, band and filmmakers alike. HQ really started to live up to its name. It became a massive place of business instead of Metallica’s private womb. Various managers, record-label executives, people putting together album art, T-shirt designers … all came by to do their part. Marketing plans were hashed out, including plans for a “St. Anger Day parade.” (The idea was scrapped out of fear that people would think the parade was a demonstration for or against the Iraq war.) One day in late March, we pulled up at HQ for one of the press days we later used to begin the film, got out of our van, and were confronted by eight other film crews all looking at us like, “Who are these guys?” Having been there for so long, I found myself feeling territorial, which surprised me, since I hadn’t realized how attached I’d become to the place. The only part of HQ that retained that old womblike feel was the control room, where the band gathered t
o work on the music and where even we were subtly encouraged not to go too often, unless we were filming. Needless to say, James’s noon-to-four rule completely fell by the wayside.

  The album was due to be mastered (the final process that turns a recording into a commercial record) in New York on April 8. This was the absolute deadline for all recording, mixing, and editing. Metallica’s managers began to exert a stronger influence, impressing upon the band the lateness of the hour, with the summer tour set to begin in just a few months. “Management said they needed to plan,” Bob Rock explains. “They said, ‘We like these four songs: “St. Anger,” “Frantic,” “Dirty Window,” and “Unnamed Feeling”—the same songs that Metallica had nearly finished before the Christmas break. ‘Make everything else sound like those.’ So we did. I actually think management made the right decision.”

  On a day when Metallica was at HQ completing one of the final St. Anger recording sessions, I was in New York doing a dog and pony show for a senior VH1 executive who thought he was acquiring our Metallica project. Despite my extreme reservations, I was trying hard to be a good soldier, frantically jumping between a few editing rooms to show him our best material so we could lock in a format and agree on the number of episodes. The look on his face made it clear he thought he’d hit the rock-and-roll-footage jackpot.

  At the same time, Bruce was filming a conference call between Metallica and the managers. Cliff Burnstein laid it out for them: VH1 was their only hope for getting the series on the air in time for St. Anger’s release. Lars was visibly annoyed by the news. “I’ll be straight up,” he said. “To me, that’s selling out to the point of ridiculousness. If this stuff can’t be shown on HBO or Showtime, I’d rather it not be shown. To me, it’s whoring ourselves. I am so passionately against it, I can’t come up with words right now. Maybe we thought we were a bigger band, a more important band. Maybe we’ll have to swallow our pride, but to me, giving this to VH1 sucks, and I will vehemently do what I can to hold out for something better later.” He shook his head. “It’s just not right. Does anyone else have an opinion?”

  Without missing a beat, James chimed in. “I agree VH1 is pretty lame. I wouldn’t even want to do MTV. It feels like it would be on the coattails of the Ozzy thing. It reeks a little bit.”

  Peter Mensch’s voice crackled over the phone. “I disagree. I can’t tell you how bad it is there in terms of people even knowing what music is out there. Every time someone is on TV, they sell more records. If we have a few hours of cool shit that tells a cool story, I’d rather have people see it. Frankly, I’m also a fan of a bird in the hand. Maybe we’ll get into Sundance, maybe we’ll [get a theatrical deal] in 2004, but that’s a long way off. If the record’s out and people can see this and make a connection to the record, I think to not take advantage of that is a crying shame.”

  It was looking like the only decision Metallica could live with was to reject VH1, which meant they’d pretty much have to buy out Elektra’s 50-percent share of the production. The question was, would Elektra have any objections? Cliff said probably not. “I think they actually might be relieved.”

  “We’ve never spent $4 million,” Peter said, with a note of incredulousness.

  “We would be spending more money than we’ve ever spent, in a year when the record business is shrinking more than it’s ever shrunk,” Cliff added.

  “I think the best thing is for us to buy this thing no matter what,” James said. “We should own this.”

  Bruce was beside himself: This was amazing news for us. As Bob Richman continued to film, Bruce slipped out of room, dug out his cell phone, and punched in my number. My phone rang as I was putting on my best soft-shoe routine for the VH1 executive. I took the call in the hallway.

  “Joe, don’t bother knocking yourself out trying to sell this to the VH1 guy.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “You’re not going to fucking believe this.” His voice dropped into an excited stage whisper. “I’m filming a conference call between Metallica and Q Prime. Metallica doesn’t want this on VH1. They’re gonna buy out Elektra’s stake and let us do a feature!”

  “No way!” I said, casting a glance back into the editing room at the soon-to-be-disappointed VH1 exec. “Cool!”

  I walked back in and finished my presentation, taking secret delight in the knowledge that VH1 was not getting its hands on our—I still couldn’t believe it—feature film.3

  Later on it would hit me that James, who had been so suspicious of the project from the start, was the first person to argue vociferously that the only way to give the film the exposure it deserved was to sink $4 million of his and his compatriots’ own money into it and make the film theirs and theirs alone. But when I first heard the news, I was just grateful. We were home free.

  Except, of course, we weren’t.

  Once again, fate—and the fate of the St. Anger album—intervened, to cause a temporary setback and then an ultimate triumph for our bid to make Monster a real film. It was the second week of April, time to master St. Anger. Metallica wanted to be on hand for the process, so the band and Bob came out to New York. We hung around and filmed them at a studio in Midtown Manhattan. We felt like we should be there because it was the last part of the recording process, but truthfully, it was a little like watching paint dry. Nothing dramatic. Except that we learned from Q Prime that VH1 had upped its offer. VH1 didn’t just want the film—they really wanted it. I guess the stuff I had shown the exec in New York really pushed them over the edge. They were willing to offer more money and even more concessions, including free advertising time during the episodes to promote the new album and heavy rotation of all the band’s videos. What’s more, in an unprecedented move, they promised to air the first two episodes commercial-free, uninterrupted, and with limited deletion of expletives (though “fuck” would still have to go).

  Bruce asked Lars if this new development might change his mind.

  “No fucking way,” he replied. “But VH1 really seems to have a hard-on for this. What do you guys think about their offer?”

  I knew what I thought. However, I also knew I didn’t want to say anything that might be construed as undermining Q Prime, so I took care not to say anything too disparaging about VH1. But I did tell them the truth. “I would be very disappointed. I think this has feature-film potential. Bruce and I feel like this film will definitely get into Sundance.”

  Courtesy of Annamaria DiSanto

  Lars’s eyes got really big. “Really?”

  Bruce shot me an almost imperceptible look of mild alarm. It was the first time either one of us had openly committed to the idea that we had a Sundance-worthy film. There was, of course, no guarantee the film would be accepted, no matter how great we thought it was. I had let myself get a little carried away here, but I knew from hanging out with Lars at Sundance a few months earlier that he held the festival in really high esteem.

  It also occurred to me at that moment that, except for Lars, who had seen a few disconnected scenes over the last several months, Metallica had not seen any actual footage since the twenty-six-minute promo we showed them when James returned from rehab. And yet they were about to make a huge business decision without really seeing what they were buying. Bruce and I huddled outside the studio and agreed that we had an ethical obligation to show them an assembly edit of the better scenes, the same stuff we’d shown VH1. We wanted to make sure that these guys were happy with what they were about to purchase. Perhaps our plan would backfire, Metallica would hate the idea of a movie after seeing the scenes, and then go running to VH1. But this was a chance we felt we had to take. The only problem was that everyone was working nonstop to put the finishing touches on St. Anger, so I couldn’t really ask them to attend a screening.

  EDITING THE MONSTER

  “It was about as dark as it gets,” David Zieff, Monster’s supervising editor, says of the period when we attempted to turn what was then nearly a thousand hours of footage into six TV episodes
, virtually overnight. “This business is funny. I have time and time again gotten jobs where I think, This is the mother of all train wrecks—there’s no way we can finish in time. But this time, we were so deep in shit, I remember marveling at how undoable this was. As the deadline got closer, I kept thinking, I hope something changes.”

  David spent nearly two years working on Monster, beginning in late 2001, when we asked him to cut our first trailer. Though initially skeptical that long therapy sessions and longer jam sessions could be edited into something compelling, he soon hit on a strategy. “It’s the human comedy,” he says. “My whole goal with this thing was to maintain the self-deprecating humor. When I was immersed in hundreds of hours of footage, my mantra was, ‘Look for the moments that are real.’ Because otherwise it’s Spinal Tap. The only way to defuse that was to let the band members laugh at themselves.”

  In the many hours we spent in the editing room, Bruce often served as a mediator between David and me as our sensibilities sometimes clashed. Bruce helped me realize that David’s tendency to gravitate toward humor counterbalanced my predilection for seriously emotional moments. There were other ways our different approaches to the material complemented each other. Whereas I have a keen eye for structure and ways to move back and forth between scenes, David is very skilled at assembling the scenes that make the intercutting possible. “We come it at from different points of view,” David explains. “I’m more into the minutiae. I’m sucking the statue from the stone. Joe saw the film [in his head] more than I did. I was down in the dirt. I didn’t watch scenes like he did— I edited them, and then I was sick of them. That’s where the success comes from. He could see it more globally than I could.”