The metal legends are back. And on ’72 Seasons,’ Metallica invites us to take the hill country of our past.
In the June 24 issue of World Magazine, I review Metallica’s latest studio album, 72 Seasons. Here’s how I open the review:
Caleb the son of Jephunneh did not believe in retirement. He was 85 when he asked Joshua for the hill country of Hebron as his inheritance. He knew he was as strong as he was 45 years prior when he spied out the Promised Land, and he knew the Lord would be with him to drive out the fearsome Anakim from Hebron. Joshua honored Caleb’s request. And Church tradition teaches that Caleb blasted Metallica’s 72 Seasons as he drove the Anakim from the hill country of Israel.
OK, that last part is a stretch, but there are Caleb-esque qualities in 72 Seasons, Metallica’s 11th studio album, which dropped in April. James Hetfield, Kirk Hammett, and Lars Ulrich—the remaining original members of Metallica—are all 60. Yet they sound every bit as young as they did on, say, 1984’s Ride the Lightning.
Proud to say that this is likely the first time ever that Joshua chapter 14 appears in a review of a Metallica album. You can read the whole thing here—and consider subscribing to World while you’re at it. They do good work and occupy a unique place in the American media environment.
About halfway through 72 Seasons, I had to remind myself that I was in fact listening to Metallica. And not because it didn’t sound like Metallica. As I mention in the review, 72 Seasons is a throwback to the “real,” pre-Black Album Metallica. It’s fast and heavy and hard and long—but I suppose at 60, you don’t have time to edit. No, it was the subtle but persistent theme of hope and light that kept breaking through the shadows that had me wondering what had happened to Hetfield and co. Again, I don’t these sentiments have ever been paired together before, but Hetfield sounded a lot like Aragorn, son of Arathorn, as he attended to Faramir in the Houses of Healing: “Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!”
Likewise, Aragorn could not have healed those with the Black Shadow had it not been for the long, hard years as a Ranger. And 72 Seasons is an album only old, haggard, seen-it-all-and-then-some men could have made. As I said in the review, “Given Metallica’s history, there is plenty of material to deconstruct. Six-fingered giants like withdrawal, shame, and temptation lurk in the shadows of these hills.” This is no country for young men.
The best song on 72 Seasons is probably the last, “Inamorata,” an 11-minute power-ballad. Yes, 11 minutes. Your faithfulness will not go without reward, though. “Inamorata” is a riparian area of riffs, flowing and churning and spilling over the song’s banks. The song is the album in miniature (if you can call an 11-minute power-ballad “miniature”). All the elements are there. All the themes and vibes swirl together. Amidst the riffs and on the other side of the shadows, we hear a voice calling. Awake, O sleepwalker: arise, shine, and put on your strength. Take the hills. Your light has come.
All that to say: 72 Seasons is pretty freakin’ rad, and you should give it a spin.
