by Ian Christe
These new realities were scary. Dio’s tour for Sacred Heart was voted Best Stage Production in the mid-1980s by the concert-industry magazine Pollstar, but in the age of Metallica’s insouciant thrashing, the singer found his legendary dramatic flair mocked by uppity metal magazines. “As the media is wont to do, especially the British press, they tore us right down,” Dio says. “We got so soured on hearing them complain about our dragon that we said, ‘Fine, just think of all the money we can save.’ So Maiden stopped presenting big stages, we stopped doing it, Priest stopped doing it—just because I think we felt really slighted that we were trying to give so much more and the press just kept castigating us so much.”
Unruly press notwithstanding, any band was destined for early retirement when it took its popularity for granted in an increasingly volatile and competitive musical form. “A lot of people were very successful during the 1980s, like Judas Priest and Iron Maiden and Motörhead,” notes Dave Mustaine of Megadeth, “and a lot of them, sadly, have fallen by the wayside, because for whatever reason they weren’t really willing to modernize their music.”
Even bands with ears closer to the ground fell out of step with the pace of change. Raven stuck it out in America for the entirety of the 1980s without experiencing massive success. After being groomed into oblivion and eventually dropped from Atlantic Records, they regrouped on the indie Combat Records, eager to relive early NWOBHM glories with a small company. “Initially it sounded great,” recalls John Gallagher. “We really wanted to push the hard-end stuff. The people at Combat were saying, ‘Yeah, Raven [was] commercial, but they’re back.’ But we got caught in between the pop metal bands and the hardcore thrash like Slayer, and it was miserable.”
At the close of the 1980s the towers of traditional heavy metal were crumbling. Returning to Europe, Metallica outsold Iron Maiden in Belgium threefold. “The day there ain’t no Iron Maiden to spearhead British music is the day heavy metal takes a swift downward pitch in this green and pleasant land of ours,” wrote Howard Johnson in Kerrang! in 1989. Yet as Margaret Thatcher was deposed in 1990, so waned Iron Maiden’s breed of dissent. Longtime singer Bruce Dickinson left the band in 1992 to spend time with his family. In semiretirement he recorded an election-year novelty single with Rowan Atkinson, aka Mr. Bean, and authored two comic novels, The Adventures of Lord Iffy Boatrace and The Missionary Position: The Further Adventures of Lord Iffy—detailing the exploits of a cross-dressing English nobleman.
Paper maiden: Bruce Dickinson’s books
Though sales remained steady, by 1989 the guitar solos, crowd sing-alongs, and stage pageantry of traditional British heavy metal lost its glory in comparison to the vibrant colors of a brave new world. After years at battle the pivotal British band Saxon took a two-year hiatus, to be replaced at the front lines by young reinforcements. “Our record company and management wanted us to adapt even more to the American market,” notes Saxon vocalist Biff Byford tartly, “but you can’t sell Coca-Cola to the Americans.” Their decade-plus careers had outlasted disco and punk, but now heavy metal’s old guard was being put out to pasture.
For the next generation, the 1990s beckoned with hints of creative renewal and no signs of weakening in the unprecedented base of support. At the close of Metallica’s marathon 140-city 1989 tour of North America, the band’s numbers were incredible—grossing more than $21 million, it ranked seventh in the annual Pollstar tally of box-office receipts, behind blockbusters like the Rolling Stones, The Who, and the Grateful Dead. Metallica had risen to the very top of heavy metal and was mobilizing for the next big step toward world domination.
At the 1989 Grammy Awards, where the band performed live to fanatic applause, Metallica was nominated in the brand-new Best Metal Performance category alongside Jane’s Addiction, Iggy Pop, AC/DC, and Jethro Tull. The new category was a nod to heavy metal’s huge popularity, yet after a decade of platinum albums by metal acts, the music business still fostered metal’s outsider status by flubbing even the most basic attempts at recognition. Groans were audible in the theater and disbelief echoed across the country, as presenter Lita Ford opened the envelope to reveal that the winners were Jethro Tull—aging deliverers of fanciful flutes and concept records. Metallica’s sales figures got it in the door, but the music industry’s concept of heavy metal still dated to a time before even Black Sabbath existed.
Ten years after Metal Massacre, Metallica remained an underdog, albeit on a huge scale. From the dais of the 1989 MTV Video Awards, fellow musician Duff McKagen of Guns N’ Roses acknowledged the greater significance of “One” even as he took home the Best Video prize for “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” Red-faced by the public reaction to their Jethro Tull gaffe, the thousands of recording engineers, lawyers, accountants, and show-business cronies comprising the Recording Academy took the next opportunity and voted “One” a Grammy for Best Metal Performance in February 1990. Metallica was finally graced with the laurels of legitimacy. To fans it was expected that the clueless establishment would hand out trophies to dinosaurs.
With a Grammy now in Metallica’s hands, however, the days of one-star reviews for heavy metal bands were finally over.
Welcomed even where Judas Priest and Iron Maiden were not, Metallica took metal to a new level of respectability. Heavy metal could no longer be purely an outsider’s paradise, a game of secret record stores and tape trader’s treasure stashes. Heavy metal held the popular majority, and Metallica had become ambassador to the world outside the heavy metal parking lot. Justice had already sold more than 2 million copies in two years, and nearly every fan of heavy metal was now a Metallica loyalist. With the New York Times lauding its “fast, adrenaline-charged music,” Metallica sought new sacred cattle to scorch.
XIII
Transforming the 1990s:
The Black Album & Beyond
February 1990: Metallica wins first Grammy
August 12, 1991: Metallica Black Album debuts at #1 in Billboard
1992: Rob Halford leaves Judas Priest, Bruce Dickinson leaves Iron Maiden
June 12, 1992: Nirvana’s Nevermind goes quadruple platinum in the United States
December 10, 1992: Metallica Black Album goes sextuple platinum in the United States
Returning to the recording studio in the fall of 1990, Metallica departed drastically from the arc of its first four albums. As was evident from demo versions of new songs by Lars Ulrich and James Hetfield, the band had taken up the strenuous task of translating its innovative speed guitars and fluttering drums to the universal language of rock and roll. The pressure on the duo and their bandmates was great to broaden their appeal—but Metallica would lose everything if it sacrificed its identity.
Now accustomed to touring large arenas, what Metallica discovered about stadium acoustics was that fans could react well to the slow crunch of “For Whom the Bell Tolls” but were paralyzed by the fast-pinning spears of “Blackened.” With that in mind the band crafted a thick sound befitting universal popularity—one that would carry to the back rows of big venues and punch through the speakers of tiny transistor radios. The product of these labors, Metallica, the Black Album, would eventually make the band a household name 50 million times over. It would turn America into a nation of headbangers— housewives, sailors, software programmers, major-league ballplayers, and all.
In creating the Black Album, the band compromised itself in carefully considered ways. Metallica had recorded … And Justice for All under its own authority, but was persuaded this time to hire Canadian producer Bob Rock, a hitmaker for Mötley Crüe and Bon Jovi. Rock had also previously recorded hardcore punks like the Sub-humans around his native Vancouver, British Columbia. While Justice revealed the band’s weakness for excess, Rock forced Metallica into an editing discipline to match their ambition, urging that they pare down songs to something—as James Hetfield noted—"quite a bit more simple.”
As was obvious from the six-note opening call of “Enter Sandman,” the entire rhythm structure was
a departure from the signature thrashing that had been the band’s bread and butter. Compared to the anthems of Master of Puppets, the new tracks were slightly slower in tempo and had half as many monster riffs per song. Instead of employing constant chugging, muted E-strings, Hammett and Hetfield let their guitar strings ring out clearly, emphasizing obvious, attention-grabbing melodic hooks while retaining the reliable NWOBHM formula of three riffs and a variation.
The two Metallica guitarists had played pretty acoustic song intros since Ride the Lightning. Now such moments extended to comprise whole songs, like “Nothing Else Matters,” whose haunting landscape rang reminiscent of Iron Maiden’s “Remember Tomorrow” and “Children of the Damned.” Though song structures were simpler on the Black Album, the arrangements were not sparse. The Hammett and Hetfield guitar arsenal—twin Gibson Flying Vs already jettisoned in favor of more finessed ESP and Ibanez instruments—was augmented on “Nothing Else Matters” by twelve-string guitar, sitar, synthesizer, and the orchestral flourishes of conductor Michael Kamen, layered in lush and cinematic sound.
The more thrash metal bombast was cleared away, the more emotional heft was required of the group. One of the album’s truest steps forward, “The Unforgiven” incorporated the epic western influence of Ennio Morricone’s movie sound tracks, allowing James Hetfield to explore a newfound cowboy persona. While recording Metallica, Hetfield lost his voice and was instructed by a vocal coach on how to better manage this valuable asset. His distinctive gruff style had become one of the most recognizable and important ingredients in the Metallica sound—a far cry from the guitarist who sang only because no one else would take the job. Previous Metalli-ballads “Fade to Black” and “One” were already established tearjerkers for hardened hearts. Now a slew of more controlled and expressive tracks followed suit.
Instead of firing broadsides at monolithic targets, Metallica discovered that protest music could speak to the soul of the individual, especially those left to flounder by the culture at large. “Being a hardcore Metallica fan,” says Shawn Crahan of the band Slipknot, “I totally respect the Black Album for the fact that Bob Rock made them search inside themselves and reach different demons that they were uncomfortable with. When you’re going through your success, you need to evolve. I personally am a fan of when Hetfield reached deep inside. I really feel that. I think more people need to reinvent themselves for the bands that they love, instead of blaming it all on the musician.”
On his third outing with the band, Jason Newsted came into his own. The impaired mix of … And Justice for All had rendered his bass inaudible, earning him the reputation of a greenhorn overwhelmed by headstrong and sometimes physically intimidating band-mates. Where Cliff Burton’s bass had been a cool, black presence lurking beneath “Orion” and “The Call of Ktulu,” Newsted’s sound was impatiently aggressive, based on a forthright picking attack. While powerful, especially on “My Friend of Misery,” his sole song-writing contribution, Newsted’s notes usually stood in with the dominant riffs of the song—further streamlining the sound.
The genetic code of heaviness prevailed, yet a division emerged between fans who accepted the “Rock” influences and others upset that the band did not progress by continuing to push heavy metal further into new realms. After all, Metallica had not risen to multiplatinum sales on the strength of its smoothness—in clarifying their aims, the band cleansed itself of turmoil. As Toronto critic Martin Popoff unmercifully called the changes in his mixed review of the Black Album, “Bob Rock brings out the hidden Canadian mediocrity in a band over-correcting on their criminally complicated predecessor.”
For the first time the underground’s loyalty to Metallica was tested, and it emerged supportive within limits. “The record was a lot better than … And Justice for All, which I found very meandering and unsure of itself,” says longtime ally Dan Lilker. “I was convinced those songs on Justice were too long and wandering, and there were riffs thrown in just for the sake of expanding the length. The Black record I really liked—it was a return to more direct songs. In my opinion it’s the last good heavy record they have, but they can tell me to fuck off.”
Willing to market its new sound with all available powers the band debuted an MTV video for “Enter Sandman” two weeks before the album’s release. Reviewers gushed, but the approval of the press barely mattered. Metallica had become the rare kind of powerhouse celebrity that carved its own musical trends, bending the shape of the cultural curve to fit its trajectory. AC/DC’s Back in Black LP charged the metal sound of the 1980s with the dark blues of “Hells Bells” and “You Shook Me All Night Long.” Now Metallica’s very similar-looking CD jolted the 1990s with the straight-ahead muscularity of “Nothing Else Matters” and “Enter Sandman.” Released on August 12, 1991, Metallica entered the Billboard chart at number one and went double platinum two weeks later.
Much had changed during the year that Metallica spent in the recording studio. Video footage released from their soundproof interment showed Lars Ulrich malevolently tossing darts at a pinup poster of Kip Winger, whose light metal act, Winger, won a gold album in 1990. By the time Metallica was released the next year that bubblegum band had lost its flavor, and Winger was well on its way to breaking up in early 1993.
In a quick and savage reversal of fortune, MTV’s hair metal had fallen flat, and as a result the overnight careers of bands like Warrant and Nelson dangled limply. The 1991 number-one Billboard debut of Skid Row’s Slave to the Grind was the last gasp of the kind of heavy metal that spent too much time admiring itself in the mirror—inspiring a better-late-than-never Rolling Stone cover with singer Sebastian Bach posing beside the banner heavy metal nation. American heavy metal fans now sought the substance and realism that they found in James Het-field’s patented scowl. The colorful rebellion and fist-pumping schoolyard cheers of Twisted Sister and Quiet Riot suddenly seemed quaint.
Bye-bye to the bad boys of glam
(Deborah Laws/Metalflakes.com)
Nowhere was this shift more evident than in Los Angeles, as the powder-puff party went to wreckage overnight. “When we hit 1990 and 1991, music was changing, and it was difficult for bands like Stryper— especially for Stryper—to make that crossover,” says Michael Sweet, singer of one of the most image-heavy L.A. bands. “We attempted that with Against the Law, and I think musically we achieved it, but I think as far as our persona and the way we came across, we failed. We went from being these happy guys who smiled and were filled with joy and peace to these guys who were trying to look tough and mean and bad. It just didn’t work. After that, I just kind of saw all the signs.”
Limiting its airplay of sleaze-minded Hollywood bands as awareness of AIDS and safe sex reached a public pinnacle, MTV’s uneasy relationship with metal turned predatory. The network’s animated series Beavis & Butt-head characterized metal fans as chortling dopes in search of cheap thrills.
Any perception of an overall heavy metal weakening, however, was the creation of television executives. After courting mainstream status throughout every phase of its rebellion, the underground was finally charging aboveground. Trading on the benefits of Metallica’s major breakthrough, the remaining Big Four bands of thrash metal— Megadeth, Slayer, and Anthrax—embarked on the nationwide Clash of the Titans trek in 1991. Complete with loud, caustic jostling among rivals, the tour peaked during a sold-out night at New York’s Madison Square Garden on June 28, proclaiming the arrival of a new heavy metal regime.
Following the success of the comic rap music detour, I’m the Man, Anthrax took a more serious stab at putting guitars to a beat in 1991, when it covered “Bring the Noise” by Public Enemy. “I mentioned Anthrax in the original ‘Bring the Noise,’” notes Public Enemy leader Chuck D, “which they always thought was a compliment that came out of a gracious nowhere. So they repaid the favor, and to me it really was the beginning of rap music and rock really being on the same plane. In 1991 the fact that a thrash metal group was covering a rap record was
a whole new thing. People considered rap records a novelty and not real shit. Step two was doing the video, and step three was being able to cut it live, which we did very well.”
The high point of the genre-breaking tour by Anthrax and Public Enemy was a sold-out hometown show before 15,000 fans in New York. “I don’t think Aerosmith respected Run-DMC enough to go around and perform ‘Walk this Way’ together live in 1986,” says Chuck D. “So I decided in 1991 to pick up the gauntlet. Even with Anthrax thrashing their guitars through the number—when we got down live, I cut through that motherfucker like a buzz saw. George Clinton said, ‘Damn, you’re one of the few people I know that can bust a Marshall amp in the ass.’”
Appearing on the late-night Arsenio Hall Show in July 1992, Megadeth also highlighted a banner year with Countdown to Extinction, which topped out at number two in Billboard. Driven by the furor of leader Dave Mustaine, now a twelve-stepper in addiction recovery, the CD was a mellifluous and solid heavy metal vessel whose thrash metal roots came out in fast virtuoso breaks. Songs like “Foreclosure of a Dream,” which dealt with the mortgage forfeiture of bassist Dave Ellefson’s family farm in Minnesota, illustrated a dissatisfaction similar to Metallica’s in more verbose prose, topped off with a sound bite from the reviled George Bush “read my lips—no new taxes” speech.
Heavy metal’s issues were now in harmony with the country’s concerns, and thrash metal’s social criticism found its way out of the record stores. During the 1992 election season, Dave Mustaine reported on the Democratic National Convention for MTV. “I went with a guy from MTV News and a guy from [voting advocacy group] Rock the Vote,” he says. “We went into the DNC, and we cornered people. I think it was being held at Madison Square Garden. We talked with Nebraska senator Bob Kerrey and the other candidates.”