It’s the connoisseur’s choice: the perfect mix of poise and fury, with the best songs from the band’s greatest line-up. This third record is a line in the sand between the gutter and the stadiums, and, if we’re honest, the reason we kept faith during the double-dip of Load and ReLoad, tolerated the hook-ups with the orchestras and squinted for greatness in St Anger. The point is, they never made a better one. Sure, Puppets was enormous, but Metallica would make bigger albums. The statistics, as they might be viewed by a record label bean-counter, don’t do it justice. It was the kind of sleeve that stopped you in your tracks, but then Master Of Puppets was the kind of album that made time stand still. Rising from the rotten grass, bedecked with the kit of fallen soldiers, each one with a thin silk line rising to a pair of bloody hands in the scorched skies.
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