A review of Metallica in RIP magazine (December 1991)
METALLICA: Metallica (5 stars out of 5)
You might chalk it up to the departure of longtime producer Flemming Rasmussen. You might chalk it up to new producer Bob Rock. You might chalk it up to the unbreakable spirit of co-producer/bandmate Cliff Burton. You might chalk it up to experience. You might chalk it up to openness, a willingness to explore the new. But whatever you do, chalk one up for Metallica; they've recorded one helluva masterpeice here. The album's magnificence isn't immediately apprehendable. The first thing you'll hear are some licks that perhaps sound familiar, and maybe you'll note that the tempos generally seem slower (though "Through The Never" can thrash with the best of them). Then you'll notice that James Hetfield has never sung better in his life. And you'll discover that the band's writing is more focused and precise than ever before. Gone is the nine minute epics, the monstrous instrumentals. In their place are songs that are a bit more scaled down without loosing the bursting energy that is Metallica's formula. The songs take some breaking-in, like a new leather jacket. There are two immediate classics here, with instantaneous pull; the leadoff "Enter Sandman" and "Don't Tread On Me." As one's involvement with the album deepens, Metallica's astonishing empathy - a songwriting trait that sets them apart from the generic brethren - makes its presence felt. There are other songs here that are still growing in richness as I listen to them - the highway saga "Wherever I May Roam," the fire-spitting castigation of hypocrisy "Holier Than Thou", the harshly introspective tract "The God That Failed". These, like the other songs on the album, expand inside your head with every new spin. That's the signal beauty of Metallica: something new whistles past every time you drop it on (or in). No laurels are rested on here; three years of work have paid off handsomely. Burton and his troops are onto something rich and strange (if we can lift from Willie the Shake for a moment). The best thing about Metallica's new one is that you can't wait to hear it again.
Washington D.C, RFK Stadium: Soundcheck, July 16, 1992
Kirk starts jamming on Deep Purple's "Mistreated." He stops abruptly as it encounters a massive attack of feedback. He looks over at James, cringing.
Hetfield in turn looks to Mick Hughes, the sound engineer. "You'll have to bounce it off that one over there," he says, pointing to one of the stage monitors.
"Bloody hell," mutters Hughes.
Lars interjects. "I don't think it'll work. What about the segue into Unforgiven? Better try that again."
"Bloody hell," mutters Hughes.
James starts to disagree (again) when stage manager Zach Harmon comes up to him with a portable phone. "It's for you, James."
"It'd better be goddamn important," the frontman replies, taking the phone. "Whad'ya want?"
At that moment, Lars tells Kirk to fire it up again. Kirk jams on "Whiplash." As it encounters feedback once again, James says "You what?" He signals to them to stop with a finger across his throat. As silence comes, James again says, "You what?" There is a small pause, and James says, "Uh huh." After an even longer pause, and with a glow in his eyes, James asks, "When?" A moment later he hands the phone back to Zach.
Kirk asks, "Anything goddamn important?"
But James doesn't hear him; clenching his ears, and with wide eyes and a wolfish grin, he strolls up to the microphone. He screams into the microphone. "FUCK YEAH MOTHERFUCKERS!"
Press Conference: July 28, 1992
Q: Is it true about the rumors of Cliff returning to the stage?
Lars Ulrich: Absolutely. Tommorow night's show at Giants Stadium, as a matter of fact. It'll be the first time he's been on stage since '86. He's really looking forward to it.
Q: How will this affect Jason Newsted's role within the band?
LU: We're entirely happy with Jason. We've bonded as closely with him as with Cliff. If you are inferring that Cliff's reunion with us tomorrow night will mean Jason's out of the gig, then let me make something clear. His therapists say that he would probably not be strong enough to handle an entire gig, let alone a 250-plus date tour. What will happen is that he'll come out and jam with us on a couple of older songs, and Jason will sing. This will not ever become an every night occurrence, either. But we'll be as happy as hell to have him come jam with us whenever he can.
Q: Such a historic moment might detract a bit from the fact that Guns 'n' Roses will also be playing their own gig only a couple hours later. Have they spoken to you regarding this?
LU: Who gives a rat's ass? Next question.
Q: Can you tell us what songs you might play with him?
LU: Come to the gig and find out for yourself. All I know is that Cliff's waited a very long time for this, six-plus years. It's a dream come true for him...and for us as well.
Review of Metallica at Giants Stadium: July 29, 1992 in The New York Times
There are reunions - and then there are reunions. Last night the Guns 'n' Roses/Metallica extravaganza pulled into Giants Stadium amidst a growing buzz that Metallica's Cliff Burton would rejoin his comrades on stage. Let me tell you, put the rumors to rest - that was no reunion last night; that was an act of God. From the opening chords of "Enter Sandman," it was obvious this would be a special night. When it came time for the singalong chant in "Creeping Death," James Hetfield barked, "We got a very special friend backstage. He can't hear you! Repeat after me!" Then came the unforgettable sight of fourty thousand Jersey-ites chanting "Die!" I swear, even the security gaurds looked into it. "I'd like to dedicate this to one of my heroes," said a humble Newsted. He bowed his head and began his bass solo with "Orion," a song Burton was an influence on. Hetfield and Kirk Hammett joined him, providing a near complete version of the song. Next came "The Four Horsemen," its vicious attack complemented by Lars Ulrich's explosive drumming. By this time, shouts of "Cliff!" could be heard. Everyone seemed to know something was supposed to happen here tonight - and happen it did. It was Newsted who came out and introduced Burton to the crowd. Cliff waved, touched by the tsunami of applause, then dove right into his own bass solo, through a Morley unit. He gives the thumbs up to Ulrich, and then right before my very eyes, the four original members of Metallica - the Metallica I grew up with - slew the crowd with "For Whom The Bell Tolls," a song Burton co-wrote from Ride The Lightning. At the song's conclusion, the screams of adulation were deafening. Everyone else was cheering, too. Burton also joined them for four other songs: the dark ballad "Fade To Black," and the epic "Master Of Puppets." Only half of "Master" was played, and it soon turned into "Seek And Destroy," with Newsted on vocals. It was magic that Burton was playing. It was a miracle that he was walking again. But the true proof of divine intervention came during "Seek": slowly, at first, Burton arches his head back - and then down. He repeats this motion, picking up speed as he does so, performing the one aspect of Metallica's live show that I hadn't known how much I'd missed until I saw it again in person - the legendary windmill. Yes, those were tears in my eyes, though I wouldn't say so if I'd been the only one. Burton fought one hell of a struggle to have come this far, but so have the rest of Metallica. Through it all, they seemed to have placed integrity above all else in this bloodsucking business and come out winners. The shows' closer, "Whiplash," was dedicated to "all our Metallica friends who prayed this would happen." Hetfield added, "I guess that includes me." My sentiments exactly. Oh yeah, there was a Guns 'n' Roses concert afterwards too. To say it registered as a footnote compared to what I witnessed earlier would be exaggerating, and it is not in my nature to stretch the truth...
Aftershow at Giants Stadium: July 29, 1992
He's tired. His knees hurt. He's winded. His back aches. His neck aches. His fingers weren't quite callused and there's a badass blister on his pointer finger. He has to sit down, but his bandmates will have none of that. Led by James, Cliff is hoisted into the air by a parade of folks, from Lars and Kirk to Zach Harmon and Tony Smith, and led back onstage to a thunderous chant of "Cliff! Cliff!" He fully expects some mild mannered reporter to run up to him and ask, "Cliff Burton, now that you've fufilled your dream and returned back to the stage with your former bandmates, what are your plans?" They would expect him to say, "Disneyland." But no, he thinks, this is where I want to be. I gave my life to get here; to take a vacation from it would be insane. The mosh-pit is my Ferris Wheel, the screams are better than the ones I'd get on a roller coaster, and the music here is much better than some Mickey Mouse crap. He decided, then, if some mild mannered reporter should run up to him and ask him that question, the correct answer would be, "To go to the next gig."
The next gig would be August 8th at the Olympic Stadium in Montreal, Quebec.
Olympic Stadium, Montreal Quebec, August 8, 1992
Mike Singleton, Metallica's pyro man, loves technology. It's so simple these days with computerized pyro shows. Just stick it in, punch a few numbers, and presto - instant screaming fans. Just have to make sure everyone is on the some page - stage hands as well as the performers. Things take only an instant to get out of hand. He pops into the dressing room to see James. "The Fade pyro, James. I'm gonna move it tonight, it'll be on the wings. So don't go out there."
James, conversing with Kirk and Cliff, doesn't respond right away. "Okay Mike, whatever."
Mike wonders briefly if James understood or not. He seemed kind of anxious - an emotion the band and the entire road crew feels now that Cliff is back around. Oh well, he thinks. I'm sure he heard. I've got more tests to run, anyhow, so whatever. He leaves the dressing room and heads out to the stage.
James straps on his double neck guitar. He begins playing "Fade To Black", one of the songs he figures will always be a concert favorite. He'd just as soon play it forever, tonight. Cliff's back, we're kickin' Guns' ass every night...cannot kill the battery, he quotes to himself. Now, where's the pyro? He said it was...by the monitors? Well fuck, it's not like I can stop the song and go ask him. This is show buisness, Metallistyle. We just cross our fingers and kick ass. He puts as much distance between himself and the stage monitors as is possible. He assumes the safest place would be out on the wings. He assumes wrongly.
St. Joseph's Hospital, Level B (Intensive Care)
It's no fun being the bearer of bad tidings, Tony Smith says to himself. Bloody hell, are the tidings bad. So horribly bad. This isn't supposed to happen. We get Cliff back on the road, and we're supposed to sail into the bloody sunset. Hell. He walks into the waiting room. Kirk is immersed in his tears. Jason is leaning against the wall, staring at nothing in particular. Cliff is in his wheelchair, too exhausted to stand. Lars is but a blur - a fidgety mess, one moment sitting on the couch, the next moment he's walking around, talking to the receptionist, demanding to know the fate of his fallen friend. He coughs, not to get their attention although he does anyway, but because there's a lump in his throat and it's become hard to swallow. The tidings are so very bad. Once they are all looking at him, he breaks the news. "James...isn't well. He's got severe third-degree burns. He's in shock, basically...and he's uhm...slipping into a coma. He isn't expected to make it until dawn."
Cliff shakes his head. "I gotta go see him."
"There's more doctors in there than there are lawyers in the world. I'm not -"
Cliff again shakes his head, the emotion rising in his voice. "I don't care about goddamn doctors. I gotta go see him."
Tony understands his grief. He walks up to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. "They won't let you in there. Doctor's orders."
"I DON'T CARE!" shouts Cliff, pushing Tony's hand away. He wheels himself past Tony, and heads out the door. He has to see James. He manages to find where James is being kept, but the doctors are extremely stubborn. Cliff is more stubborn though, absolutely driven. They agree to allow him five minutes alone. They figure he can't do any harm, as James is basically hooked up to a respirator/heart monitor. All they're waiting for is to rush in should he undergo cardiac arrest. He wheels himself in, not so sure it was a good idea. He enters anyway, and stops by James's bed - or at least where all the emergency devices are gathered. There are more contraptions stuck on him than should be possible; in some places things appeared to be overlapped. He can hear James breathe, though it sounds labored and infrequent. Then finally, through a maze of gadgets he sees part of James's face. It's a haunting, daunting glimpse that's more than enough for him. Cliff cannot take it anymore. Staring at James, Cliff says, "I hate you. You lousy son of a bitch. I've come this far, and then you leave me like this. It's just like you, a lousy bastard." A machine beeps. "I hate you," he repeats, his eyes never leaving James.
A dark, sickle-holding figure emerges from the corner of the room. "To whom are you referring, Cliff?"
"Who do you think?" he says. When he turns to face Death, his eyes are glistening with tears. "My good friend Death, who gave me my dream for one second then twists it into a nightmare."
Death looks taken aback. "After the chance I've given you, you treat me like that?"
"Why couldn't I have walked into the pyro? Why him? Why James?"
"It was someone's turn tonight - that's the way it must be." Suddenly the machine beeps again, a high-pitched, drawn-out sound. Then it stops, and an unconscious James is overcome with coughing. "That's the way it must be."
"But why not me? Why not take me?"
"Because," says Death, "it's not your turn. Oh, I'll come for you in time, Cliff, when you're about eighty. Besides, you've won your war against hypocrisy and the lack of integrity in the music business. You and your band have given artists something to hold on to, and to aim for. And there is a price, Cliff. How did you phrase that? 'There is a time to reap, and a time to sow.' The time to reap, Cliff, is now.." He walks toward James, and the heart monitor machine begins to act up. The beeps come again, insistent.
Cliff sees the machine acting up, and is overcome with dread. He has to think of something, and fast. "You said that when you show up on the scene, you're not there to play checkers, I remember. What if I told you you could have your way? You said you can turn the clock back...so turn it back, not just earlier tonight, but way back - all the way back."
Death turns, smirking. "To the begining of creation?"
"No. To when I had the accident - September 27th, 1986."
Death is astonished. "I don't believe it. You would really give all those years since then away to nothingness? Don't you worry that Metallica might not even continue on without you, and the battle would be lost?"
"Metallica is a motherfucker of a band - with or without me. It wasn't about me in '86 and it's not about me now. It's about what's best for Metallica. Didn't you say, in our last meeting, that I should focus on Metallica, and not on
music? With James gone there is no more Metallica. I've become humble enough to realize that and, yes, to sacrifice all those years...but..." Cliff wipes his tears away, attempting to control himself in such a dire moment. "It all depends...if I die, in '86, will he still die now? In a friggin' pyrotechnics accident?"
"Well," Death says, twirling his sickle, "I must say that I'm impressed by your humility. Your faith in the heart and soul of your bandmates - your dearest friends - has grown over the years. This sickle looks deadly, but it's only used
as a tool for change. You used to wield Metallica like a mighty blade, but now they too, are but an element of change - change for the better, I might add."
Cliff admires Death's eloquence but dismisses it. "Answer the question, pal."
A smile twitches the corner of Death's mouth. This verbal battle is very much like a game of checkers - a game Cliff is intent on winning. "You know about the checkers thing. I explained that the bus would flip one way or the other. Well, there's going to be a pyro accident, one way or the other...last time I used a guardrail to prop the bus just enough to keep you down but not out. However, I think that I'll need some help on this one."
Cliff swallows hard. "Whatever it takes."
James begins to spasm. The noise of the heart monitors reaches a feverish pitch. Death turns back to Cliff. "You realize, there is probably no man ever who has more humility than you at this moment, and it's sad when you realize that no one will ever be able to appreciate it. Instead, there will be years of speculation about you, what might have been, what should have been...your friends and your fans will make it a priority that you are never forgotten in this world, Cliff."
Cliff takes one last look at his freind, dying right before his eyes. He can no longer hold back the tears. "As long as you're sure this can be avoided...then so let it be done." Suddenly, James spasms one last time, and the heart monitor makes a final, erratic beeping noise. A moment later James Hetfield is no longer among the living. He leaves his body, relieved to be free of the pain. There is a well-lit tunnel he is rushing toward, and he sees some vauge shapes of people lining the tunnel. He feels sleepy, and finally at peace with years of -
But in that same instant, it's no longer 1992, but 1986. September 27th, to be exact.
James wakes, staring at the ceiling. No, wait a minute here. What is the rug doing on the frigging ceiling? What the hell is going on here? No sooner does he realize that he's staring at the floor than he hears a hoarse voice calling out his name. There's also one hell of a cold draft in the room, suddenly. He looks at where the window is - but not only had the floor and ceiling changed places, so had everything else. And...something about the window wasn't right. It's bad, he feels. The only view the window offers is the blacktop of a highway. James feels terror welling up in the pit of his stomach. "What the hell happened?" he asks himself. He lifts himself off the ceiling/floor/wall/whatever the hell it is, and opens an emergency hatch. When it opens, he climbs into the chilly air outside. Kirk, walking around in his underwear and shuddering, sees James emerge from the bus and rushes up to him.
"Dude, you all right?"
"I guess so. What the fuck happened?"
"The uhm...bus tipped over and he uhm...he's dead, man."
He's never seen his bandmate so shaken, so distraught. It scares James out of his wits. He asks, "Who's dead? Who?"
"It's uhm...it's Cliff."
Olympic Stadium, Montreal Quebec, August 8, 1992
Mike Singleton, Metallica's pyro tech, loves technology. It's so simple these days with computerized pyro shows. Just stick it in, punch a few numbers, and presto - instant screaming fans. Just have to make sure everyone is on the same page - stage hands as well as the performers. Things take only an instant to get out of hand. He pops into the dressing room to see James. "The Fade pyro, James. I'm gonna move it tonight, it'll be on the wings. So don't go out there."
James, conversing with Kirk and Jason, doesn't respond right away. "Okay Mike, whatever."
Mike wonders briefly if James understood or not. He seemed kind of anxious - an emotion the band and the entire road crew feels now that they're trying to outdo Guns 'n' Roses. Oh well, he thinks. I'm sure he heard. I've got more tests to run, anyhow, so whatever. He leaves the dressing room and heads out to the stage.
James straps on his double neck guitar. He begins playing "Fade To Black", one of the songs he figures will always be a concert favorite. He'd just as soon play it forever, tonight. They cannot kill the battery, he quotes to himself.
Now, where's the pyro? He said it was...by the monitors? Well fuck, it's not like I can stop the song and go ask him. This is show buisness, Metallistyle. We just cross our fingers and kick ass. He puts as much distance between himself and the stage monitors as is possible. He never sees his old friend Cliff Burton standing on the wings, in fact he walks right through him. He doesn't hear Cliff yell, "Watch out, James!" But then he suddenly remembers that the pyro isn't by the monitors...and there's only so many places to put it. He gets a bad feeling, and he backs up, away from the wings and back toward Lars' kit, assuming that he can get back to the relative safety of the drum riser before things start to blow up. He assumes wrongly.
Montreal, Quebec, St. Joseph's Hospital, Level A
Tony Smith walks into the waiting room. The band is there - a tired Jason, a worried Kirk, and a fidgety Lars. He coughs, meaning to get their attention.
"How is he?" asks Lars.
"Well...he's got some second degree burns. I guess his arm took the brunt of it. The doctors have got him on some morphine to help kill the pain. They say he'll be up and about tomorrow morning." He also thinks about informing them that there were riots following Guns's set, but instead decides it doesn't matter much. James was alright, a little beaten up, but nothing a little time wouldn't heal. As the song said, nothing else mattered.
Epilogue
James is pleased to not be in such pain. While he's thankful for the numbing effects of the morphine, he wonders if it was the proper dosage, as he's having hallucinations. It's a pretty good image that appears before him, one of Cliff. He looks the same as he did that last night in '86, remarkably accurate. It almost looks real, he thinks. Feeling pretty mellow, he decides to have fun with the apparition. "Heyyy, Cliffff. Whatzzzz up...mmman?"
Cliff smiles. "Not much, James. Glad to see you're alright."
Wow, thinks James. These are pretty good drugs...even his voice is the same. "Heavy mmmetal...mmman. Fffffuck."
"Heavy metal, indeed," says Cliff. "I'm just amazed that you guys are basically at the same point as when I left. But what the hell went wrong when you made Justice?"
James wonders why a hallucination would care about the production of Justice.
"Itzzzz...ffffuking shit, mmman. Shhhh...shoulda beennn therrrrr...ffffuking Larzzz and hizzzz...drummm trakzzzz."
Cliff laughs. "Been there, done that. Hey, I gotta be going. I just wanted to make sure that everything was cool down here before I went back."
Back to where? wonders James. "Dude...wwwhere you goin'?"
"Someplace where my wildest dreams are at my fingertips."
The world and the visions in it are beginning to swing out of focus, and now he knows he's dreaming. But he tries to keep the dream alive, and asks, "Wwwwatzzz that?"
"What do you think? Gonna go see a Misfits show!" He smiles wider now. "I'm actually gonna be in the band!"
"But...the Mmmisfitzzzzz arrrrre...dead, mmmannn."
Cliff is exuberant. "I know! I know! Ain't it cool, man? Hey," he says, coming up to James, "I do have to be going, now. Otherwise he's gonna have to start playing checkers and he hates to do that."
Checkers? Misfits shows? This is one hella-dream. But anyway... "Heyyy, put it herrrre, mmmann." He offers Cliff his hand. To his suprise, Cliff comes up to him and shakes it. What awesome drugs, James thinks. Maybe a little too awesome. I can feel his hand, as if it's actually there. "Youuu arrre the best, Cliffff."
Tears are streaming down Cliff's face. "Take it easy. Say hi to Lars and Kirk - and Jason, too."
Cliff disappears in a blink of an eye...but then, so does the rest of the world, and James is lost to slumber, having yet another crazy dream. This one is Cliff playing "Seek And Destroy" on the GNR/Metallica tour. Crazy, but quite comfortable. He stays there for awhile. It turns out to be one hell of a show.
