Metallica's new old edge: 'Death Magnetic'

Backstage and a million miles away from the mosh, the four members of Metallica, the night's headline act, seemed to be surrounded by a bubble of calm. Mingling by a catering table, they chatted quietly with friends and family and sipped from bottles of water instead of whiskey as they waited for the masseuse to arrive. The only real tension came through the phone from New York and Los Angeles, where a deadline was looming. After two years of work, the final mix on their new album, "Death Magnetic," due Sept. 12, was just hours away from completion in Manhattan, and drummer Lars Ulrich was keeping tabs from Texas.

"Unless there is some major hiccup, today is the last day of creative input," said Ulrich, the compact, Danish-born musician who is the band's most outspoken member. "I'm one day from disowning the record. In the morning I can talk about it as part of my past. For months people have been asking me what the new record is like. I've told them, 'I don't know, I'm too close to it.' As of tomorrow maybe I can start answering."

Ulrich was being coy. Everyone in Metallica's circle is privately giddy with the new album which, under the guidance of imported star producer Rick Rubin, is a return to the thunderous menace of the band's mid-1980s work. Bassist Rob Trujillo, with a grin, came the closest to bragging. "I will say this: Our contribution to popular culture this time around is a very, very strong one."

The album, their first in five years, is clearly one of the major releases of 2008, but the question of where Metallica exactly fits into contemporary pop culture is a slippery matter. The band is a proud 20th century beast in sound and heart, but that's not the most pressing problem. The real issue is whether Metallica, the hardest metal band of its generation, has shown its world too much of a soft side.

The 2004 documentary "Metallica: Some Kind of Monster" by filmmakers Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky started off as a straightforward "making of the album" feature about the 2003 collection "St. Anger." It ended up as a wrenching, extended therapy session as the band members, shaken by lead singer James Hetfield's abrupt entry into rehab, bickered and worked with a controversial therapist named Phil Towle.