LA Weekly

Scars On Broadway, formed by System Of A Down-ites Daron Malakian (vocals/guitar) and John Dolmayan (drums) had the unenviable task of performing songs which, with one exception (current radio-fave “They Say”), were a mystery to most. Though musically brave and dynamic, their set felt oddly stodgy. SOB share many SOAD traits – churning riffs juxtaposed against exotic harmonies and folksy intricacies; Zappa-esque lyrical and stylistic irreverence; Dolmayan’s Bonham-vs.-blast-beats muscle – while aching for the commanding timbre of a true lead singer.

Most of the black-shirted, older-skewed crowd came to witness Metallica breaking a long absence by performing (by their standards) in intimate surroundings. The veteran Bay Area bruisers, now in varying states of hairiness, unfurled a relentless “best of” set with the palpable glee of parolees, embracing each horns-aloft classic (“Seek and Destroy”, “Battery”, “One”, “Master of Puppets”, “For Whom the Bell Tolls” - count ‘em) like lost loved ones. Adding a wide-eyed, garage-band zeal to their seasoned, brutal precision gave Metallica’s chugga-chugga-widdle formula fresh legs and incongruous warmth. Strutting figurehead James Hetfield both bathed in and projected the togetherness his band’s music instantly elicited, front-to-back, in this most cynical of cities.

Metallica marry metal’s technical prowess and hot-rod histrionics to the guttural venom and velocity of hard-core, producing something melodic yet monstrous, trained but untamed. Their earlier efforts, personified by 1984’s “Fight Fire With Fire” (for which Conservatory co-founder/Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist Flea joined them), are more bile than guile, while height-of-their-fame hits like “Enter Sandman” (from ‘91’s giga-selling Metallica opus) over-buff their streetwise savagery. Somewhere between the two – i.e. the rest of tonight’s set – lies Metallica’s mongrel magnetism.

Bassist Robert Trujillo bookended his bestial prowl with bouts of unfettered bedroom mirror mane-flailing, while ringlet-shrouded shredder Kirk Hammett nurtured climbing vines of squealing virtuosity and Lars Ulrich punctuated ‘tallica’s mini-operas with rabble-rousing behind-the-kit showmanship. But all this would’ve counted for naught without Hetfield’s machine-shop rhythm guitar, fatherly growl and truck stop charm.

Metallica justified the night’s hefty price tag and supported its cause by example: when Hetfield uttered “this is why we’re in a band” as his final words he surely did propel hundreds of fingers to fretboards, sticks to mitts and mouths to mics.

-Paul Rogers