Metallica & San Francisco Symphony
School was a while ago and thinking about it now it had its moments. So I think I will go to the Reunion – why not? I mean it might bring back some of those happy memories. Memories of not much happening at all. And new visions of the once-cool kids, now balding and beer-guts and flaccid and bored and Drunk Uncle-dancing and Bad Dad-joking and wobbling as they walk and grabbing the table to brace themselves as they stand and hoping that someone is watching and burping after each beer-swallow and lamenting the mortgage and wincing over prices and laughing at inanities and beating old jokes with new sticks and seeking validation by lining up bottles and heaping praise on people they’ll never see ever again and repeating punchlines and repeating punchlines and repeating punchlines and repeating punchlines and is this on? Is this microphone on? Are you listening? Can you hear the greatness? Do you remember the greatness?
Well it sure seemed like such a long time ago. Been a long, long time since we did that stroll. Been a long, long time since this seemed like rock’n’roll. Admittedly with strings attached.
And basically Metallica is just U2 with stale beer-breath and eggy farts; is simply the same thing over and over and over again. And if you’re old enough to remember when it was ever anything good then you should run a mile from this. It’ll be worth the week of heartburn and the pulled hamstring. “Pulled Hamstrings” was actually the conductor’s working title on his vision board at rehearsals. And Lars still sounds like he’s kicking a wet
cardboard box. James gargles marbles and spits out Spinal Tap’s rejected lyrics.
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