One of the body's cleverer mechanisms for dealing with the hubbub of the modern world is called sensory adaptation. Simply put, if it wanted to, the mind could try to process all the stimuli with which it is confronted every moment - the light and shadows that bounce around a room, the micro-weather patterns of a house, the sound of the blood pulsing in one's ears, the various points of contact where clothes meet skin - but, quite likely, such a constant barrage would be excruciating. Consequently, we adapt. I think something similar happens once we become immersed in a particular style of music. So inured do we become to certain elements that traits we might otherwise find grating if we were more aware of them tend to pass by relatively unnoticed. Just as the novice may be expected to miss the nuance of a style to which he is new, so may a devotee cease to notice features the outsider might find odd. Alexis de Toqueville's Democracy in America is a classic text primarily because, as a foreigner, he was able to perceive the United States of the 1830s with eyes unjaundiced by familiarity. It was this same attitude I tried to adopt when I approached the critically-acclaimed Master of Puppets by the seminal heavy metal band Metallica. So what did I hear that the native-born headbanger might have missed? Themes so comically dark it was hard for me to take them seriously. But, that's alright, because Metallica take themselves seriously enough for all involved. And the lyrics - oh, the lyrics! - they positively luxuriate in pain, death, insanity and violence, as if they were indulging in a shiatsu massage spa treatment...in hell. Not that I could focus on the words all that much as the vocals took a backseat to the cacophony enveloping them. Good thing, too, because otherwise I might've had to endure a greater intimacy with James Hetfield's groan-inducing, faux-medieval, German-style syntax on lines like "never you betray," "in madness you dwell," "nothing could I say," and "with fear you run." Read those out loud and it sounds like Yoda translating the diary of Vlad the Impaler. Several of the songs, most notably "Battery" and "Damage, Inc." begin softly and melodically before descending into the band's brand of sludgy thrashmageddon. Unfortunately, these are more fake-outs than they are forays into meaningful variety. For a band that thrives on compositional innovation, it comes off a bit lazy going to that same well time and time again. Still, this album reminds me of nothing more than it does classical music and that might be the proper context in which to view the band itself. These are highly adept musicians writing mini-symphonies that feature shifting time signatures and complex transitions all played at break-neck speeds. They are also stuck in arrested development, articulating puerile ideas and exuding an often amateurish theatricality. But is it so strange for these disparate qualities to coexist? If Amadeus is to be believed at all, Mozart was three parts genius, one part buffoon. Such a summary might also be applied to Metallica, even if their ratio is somewhat closer to 1:1. Grade: C
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