Some Kind of Monster

Over the weekend, we watched ‘Some Kind of Monster’, a documentary on metal band Metallica.

Granted, it is not our standard movie fare. I prefer romantic comedies, which Husband vetoes in favour of gritty thrillers or anything that stars Adam Sandler.

However, I insisted we watch Some Kind of Monster, since I was pondering whether I was a closet Metallica fan. It may not be as fundamental a question as – for example – whether I believe in god, or my sexual orientation, or even whether I prefer eating or sleeping. However, I know the answers to these questions (not usually, relatively straight in most social contexts, hard to say).

Much to everyone’s surprise, the documentary was awesome. It was filmed in 2003, during the recording of the Metallica’s eighth album, St Anger.

The band is in disarray after their bassist leaves, not because he set someone’s hair on fire, or trashes the tourbus, or rapes another bandmember’s girlfriend. Disappointingly, it is due to his founding another band which ‘takes away from the strength of Metallica’, according to lead singer James Hetfield.

Will the band be torn asunder by petty quarrels, or stay together to continue making squillions of millions of dollars? That, my friends, is what is called ‘dramatic tension’.

Since the answer seems entirely uncertain, the band hires a therapist – Dr Phil – to help them deal with their issues and talk about their feelings with plenty of ‘I’ messages.

I would have expected a band of Metallica’s calibre to just snort a couple of lines and kick each others’ faces in. If someone had recorded it (had they been thinking far enough ahead), there’s your album without any of the creative angst and I’m sure nobody would have noticed any difference.

But that, I suppose, would have made for a short documentary.

Then James Hetfield checks into a rehab centre for six months. The only discernible impact appears to be that Lars Ulrich has to spend more personal time with Dr Phil, who tries to persuade him to bond with his father – a freak who practices lewd yoga.

Dr Phil engineers a face-off between Lars and Dave Mustaine, a former band member. Over twenty years before, after playing bass less than two years for Metallica, Mustaine was sacked for substance abuse – although the state of his hair would have been enough. He subsequently founded Megadeth.

It is difficult generating much sympathy for a poor little multimillionaire metal god, especially when Mustaine’s main gripe appears to be a riff on the fact that Metallica has sold 90m records and Megadeth only 15m.

To his credit, Lars doesn’t suggest Dave write better songs, or not be such a dick, or kick his face in.

What struck me was how human these guys are (with the exception of the exploding egos). I’m pretty sure I saw Kirk Hammett drinking tea at one point. Tea! Let’s face it, James Hetfield sounds less like a rock god than someone sent down from Oxford for fondling a tutor’s daughter beneath a rosebush. Lars Ulrich is undoubtedly a better businessman than musician. And although none of the band is capable of passing a camera without flicking the bird, not one of them said the ‘c’ word, even once.

So the documentary answered my question, although undoubtedly the result would have been different had there been face-kicking

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