There was a time in my youth where the anticipation of a concert was better than the concert itself. I saw a whole lot of incredible acts back then, but my memories of those shows are largely confined to their buildup. I remember waiting for hours—in a line that wrapped around the local Dayton’s department store—to score tickets to Van Halen, feeling like a prince when I reached the window and they still had seats left. I remember the giant, Hysteria-themed scrim that shielded Def Leppard’s in-the-round stage, and the band, from view before they went on. I remember standing on the main floor before a Poison concert with my friend Tony, gawking at all the women in attendance who had dressed themselves with the intent to score an invite backstage. Great moment to be a ninth grader.
Above all else, I remember the excitement. The electrical current inside of my body, growing to a crescendo as showtime drew nearer and nearer. The energy I intuited from everyone else in the arena as we endured the wait for the headliner to take the stage. The music blasting through the PA that kept getting louder and louder, to prime everyone for the real thing. And finally, the lights going off and all of us breaking into a spontaneous roar, a roar so loud that I couldn’t hear my own screams through it. I remember all of that, and in some ways that’s enough.
But not when it comes to Metallica.
I’m not satisfied with the limited memory I possess of my first, and until now only, time seeing Metallica live. I was 12 years old. It was an April 1989 show they played at the Met Center in Bloomington, Minn.: an arena that no longer exists, for a hockey team that now resides in Texas. I went to that show with my best friend, David. My brother Alex drove us to Bloomington because my parents didn’t feel like getting in the car. This was the first rock concert I was ever attending without an older chaperone, and it was for my favorite band in the world. I should have remembered every second of it.
I don’t. I only remember the before. David and I getting dropped off outside the chain link fence bordering the Met Center parking lot. The tangle of metal heads, punks, dirtbags, and stoners eagerly filing into the arena. Me buying the same t-shirt that drummer Lars Ulrich wears in the band’s seminal “One” video. Oh, how I remember all of that. I was so hyped for that show, the only thing I could think was Metallica. Metallica, Metallica, Metallica. The band’s name was its own invitation to seek and destroy.
“Yo, David.”
“Yo?”
“Metallica.”
“Metallica.”
“Fucking Metallica.”
“HOLY SHIT, METALLICA!”
As for the show itself, all I really remember is the giant statue of Lady Justice crumbling behind the band during the finale. That remains the coolest bit of theatrics I’ve ever witnessed at a rock concert, but I should’ve been able to retain more than just that moment. Why couldn’t I, dammit? One reason that you grow forgetful as you age is that you have so much life to keep track of, and your mind often gives you little choice in what it retains with clarity and what it lets slip into a past dream. I can remember certain ads from the 1980s like I fucking wrote them myself. But not the Damaged Justice tour at the Met Center.
It wasn’t right. Metallica is the first band I ever felt a true kinship with (I’m not alone). Given how much I still love them, they remain the band most important to my life. Metallica, in many ways, IS my life.
That’s why I’m on a Metro to the asshole of Prince George’s County right now. Thirty-six years after seeing Metallica in the flesh, I need to see them again. Not to relive a feeling, but to complete it.
Also to smoke some weed and have my balls rocked off.
It’s 2025 and I am 48 years old. I haven’t lived in Minnesota, or seen my old friend David, since 1991. Thanks to the advent of the internet, I didn’t have to wait in line for my ticket this evening. I also have no date. I don’t need my brother to dive me places anymore, and no one else in my family cares about Metallica as much as I do. Ticket prices to see the band, even in a venue as large as the Commanders’ home stadium, aren’t what they were in 1988. So I’m riding Metro to the stadium all by my lonesome, ready to make friends with any other fans who might enter the train along the way.
Barely any appear. I see one guy in an AC/DC shirt, and then one dude in a Metallica shirt after I change trains downtown. I knew things would be different this time around, so I’m not all that ruffled. I’ve grown accustomed to being the lonely concertgoer in my middle age, and I have a phone to stare at anyway (colleague Dan McQuade just saw the band in Philly and told me it was a “pretty good show,” which counts as a rave from an Eagles fan). I took a gummy before I left the house, so I don’t necessarily need external sources of hype fuel. My lounging mind is more than happy to do that bit of legwork on its own.
Metallica, it tells me. Fucking. Metallica.
I get off at the Addison Road stop, an alleged 15-minute walk from the stadium. I wore a rain jacket here, which was a good move because it’s aggressively misting outside. It’s not full-bore rain, but it’s enough that I can’t ignore it. Nor can the now-growing number of fans joining me on the joyless march toward the stadium. They’re all near my age, and they’ve aged out of dirtbagdom: out of rat tails, out of mullets, out of jeans shredded at the kneecaps. Instead, the majority of them are rocking North Face jackets. A poncho vendor on the side of the road has little chance of attracting such well-prepared yuppies. Ditto the guy a few feet ahead selling cold bottles of Faygo soda. Wrong band, amigo.
I reach the parking lot and glance over at the tailgate parties, all of which are due north of civilized. Lotta BMWs in this lot, no vans you shouldn’t go a-knockin’ on. Shit man, Yeti is a sponsor of this tour. Things aren’t what they used to be, but I knew that would be the case. I’m not who I used to be, either. But I’m still Drew, and this is still Metallica I’m about to witness.
My tail sticks straight up when I hears the music coming from inside the stadium. Suicidal Tendencies is the first opening act tonight. I arrived here too late to watch their set; I needed to save my ears because the main act is always louder, especially when it’s Metallica. But the racket Suicidal is making from hundreds of yards away puts me on full devil horns alert. The noise sounds exactly how I want it to sound: loud and rude.
I spark up a mini-preroll right there on the sidewalk. Cops are around, but this isn’t 1989. I bought this preroll, and the four others on me, legally this morning. The only thing that gives me trouble with scoring weed now is finding a good parking spot. I check my ticket and, as always, have arrived on the wrong side of the stadium. I’m gonna need fuel for this extended walk, so I buy a shitload of Gatorade and two hot dogs, eating them at the condiment station (the best place to eat food in any stadium is at the condiment station or directly over a trash can). They’re fucking delicious. Metallica.
By the time I pass through security (they don’t notice the weed) and grab some merch (that line was 1989 in length), Pantera has already taken the stage as the second opener. Despite losing guitarist Dimebag Darrell Abbott when he was murdered onstage 20 years ago, the band still looks and sounds like the Pantera you might remember: guitar bodies with hard angles, lead singer Phil Anselmo stalking the stage like he’s about to jump into a brawl. They finish their set with “Walk,” the Pantera song that everyone knows, and then leave the stage to let the anticipation grow.
Sundown approaches and the rain fucks off. The lights dim and the crowd rushes in. Standing before me is a ring of eight video/amplifier towers, each as tall as a county water tower, encircling an in-the-round stage. Suddenly, the screens wrapping around each tower light up bright yellow. Now AC/DC’s “It’s A Long Way To The Top (If You Wanna Rock N’ Roll)” is blasting out of them, the crowd singing along to its chorus. A battalion of smoke machines, those warhorses of rock ‘n roll spectacle, kick up. I spark up a second preroll and the dude next me makes an “ew gross” face. Tough shit, buddy. This is Metallica. This is the moment I’ve been missing for 36 years. I couldn’t smoke weed when I was 12. I’m making up for lost time.
The bell tolls. Here they come. Here’s Rob Trujillo, still fresh to my eyes despite the fact that he’s now the longest tenured bassist that Metallica has ever had. Here’s drummer Lars Ulrich, taking his seat at the drum kit and wearing a backwards baseball cap even though he’s WAY too old for that kinda shit. Here’s lead guitarist Kirk Hammett, his hairline receding but his fingers still ready to gallop across the neck of his flying V. And finally, to the crowd’s great approval, here comes lead singer/rhythm guitarist James Hetfield, still looking like the big bad wolf at a hearty 61 years old. Hetfield walks up to one of the many mic stands stationed around the stage and assumes an isosceles stance that he’ll never come out of. This is Metallica, and they waste zero time giving me, and everyone else, the most generous helping of Metallica that they can deliver.
I let out one of my earplugs a little. Life demands it.
The first two songs are classic tracks “Creeping Death” and “For Whom The Bell Tolls.” Suddenly I’m back in 1988, listening to these tracks for the first time on Alex’s boom box. I tossed in this Metallica tape as a laugh. A band chanting DIE DIE DIE for minutes on end? That’s funny to little me. It doesn’t take long for me to realize this isn’t funny at all, but the coolest thing I’ve ever listened to. And you know what? It hasn’t gotten any less cool in 2025. You know how good it feels, no matter who you are or what your everyday disposition might be, to scream DIE DIE DIE at the top of your lungs? The Calm app is shitting its microchips, it feels so inferior as a catharsis mechanism.
Next up comes “Leper Messiah” off of Master of Puppets, which is the greatest metal album ever recorded. Now I’m back in high school, running laps for wrestling practice and playing that entire album, back to front, in my mind as I endure one miserable turn after another. When the driving bridge of “Leper Messiah” lands, I start sprinting because Hammett’s lightspeed fretwork demands it. If I could break into a similar dead run here in 2025, I would. My body craves speed. Motion. Power. I spot a mosh pit forming down on the field and, despite my age, would kill to join it. I wanna jump into other bodies. I wanna feel impact. So does everyone here, luxury outerwear be damned.
Hetfield knows this. After decades playing to crowds this size, he knows what all of us came for. He tells everyone in the crowd, “If you got some ugly shit inside of you, this is the place to let it out.” And you know what? I still have ugly shit inside of me. That hasn’t changed since my last time seeing these men ply their trade. Life hands you new ugliness every day, especially these days. I can’t purge it from my system fast enough.
Now here comes a one-two punch of “Lux Aeterna” and “If Darkness Had A Son,” two tracks off of the band’s newest album, 72 Seasons. Like pretty much every Metallica album since the 1980s ended, 72 Seasons suffers greatly from a lack of editing. But it still rocks, and it fits into a creative renaissance that Metallica enjoyed ever since 2008, when it released comeback album Death Magnetic. That creative resurgence was never a guarantee. This because bands get old, and few of them ever get old quite the way Metallica has.
It’s 1996. I’m in my car, fresh from purchasing the sixth Metallica album, Load, from the record store. By now, the band has already broken contain thanks to their 1991 self-titled opus. The Black Album, as pretty much everyone calls it, was the product of a deliberate attempt by both Metallica, along with new producer Bob Rock, to pare back their complex arrangements and play shorter, more radio-friendly shit. It was a sellout album, but I remember wanting the band to sell out when it was released. I was at an age where I wanted everyone to like what I liked, so I was excited for The Black Album to sell a bazillion copies and validate my precious musical tastes. There were even reports that said The Black Album would have an honest-to-god, no-bullshit power ballad on it called “Nothing Else Matters.” Again, I was psyched. My band was about to take over the world.
And so they did. The Black Album flawlessly reworked Metallica’s sound into something more commercial, and wound up selling 30 million copies as a result. I was happy for my guys. Pumped for where they planned on taking me next. So here in my car, I can’t wait to pop Load into the stereo and see what goodies it has to offer. Turns out that Metallica and Rock decided to make a glorified country music album. I try to get hyped up for new tracks like “Ain’t My Bitch” and “2 x 4,” but it’s no use. The album, save for the epic “Bleeding Me,” is a dud. And when you’re in a lifelong relationship with an artist, you take their missteps personally. You feel hurt. Betrayed. The whole Star Wars thing.
As I try to convince myself that Load is a passable album, I don’t realize how long this sense of betrayal will last. Turns out to be well over a decade. After Load comes Reload, which I never bother to purchase. After Reload comes Ulrich, whose personality has always been an acquired taste, publicly feuding with Napster over illegal downloading. Ulrich is right to defend artists and their intellectual property. He sees what the internet means for musicians’ livelihoods before the rest of us do. But because he’s Lars Ulrich, no one takes his side. After the Napster fight comes the firing of second bassist Jason Newsted, who was treated like a fraternity pledge by the other band members all through his tenure. And after that, in 2003, comes the band’s creative nadir, St. Anger. The recording of this album is chronicled by filmmaker Joe Berlinger for Some Kind of Monster, which is probably the greatest rock documentary of all time, and not because it’s a flattering one. By now, some of Metallica’s biggest detractors are the people who love them the most. (sigh) Metallica.
As for me, I’m not mad at the band, just disappointed. I’m married and getting ready to start a family by the time St. Anger is released, and I still have enough residual love for Metallica to give the album a chance. Because it’s sonically heavier than its immediate predecessors, I even give it a nice review on Amazon after one spin. I never listen to it again after that. I no longer have the desire to keep my flame lit. Despite being an adult, I also still don’t understand that the relationship you have with an artist is never static, especially if that relationship lasts your whole life. What’s more, it’s actually a relationship you have with yourself. I never wanted Metallica to change, especially for the worse, because I never wanted to change. But both of you do, and you have to reckon with it. You can’t simply deny what you’ve become, otherwise you’ll never grow into someone new. Someone better. You’ll rot, as will your soul.
That’s some ugly shit to keep inside of you, isn’t it?
Twenty-two years after St. Anger, all is forgiven inside the Commanders stadium. In fact, the Reload track “Fuel” turns out to be one of the highlights of the night, because that’s when the pyrotechnics go off. “GIMME FUEL GIMME FIAH GIMME THAT WHICH I DESIRE,” Hetfield sings, and so the stagehands give it to him (albeit at a safe distance). Maybe I should’ve given Reload a chance. Metallica is giving me a full tour of its recording history, and it feels more life-affirming than burdensome.
After “Fuel,” all four members of the band gather close together on stage for “Orion,” their instrumental masterpiece off of Puppets. I know every note of this track, and always have. Now I’m on a beach in Florida in the late 1980s, listening to “Orion” on my Walkman as many times in a row as time will allow for. But I’m also here, in 2025, marveling at four men who are all older than me, staring each other dead in the eyes as they lose themselves in the music. The majority of “Orion” was written by founding bassist and driving creative force Cliff Burton, who died in a tour bus accident after Puppets was released. In some ways, the band never got over Burton’s death. Many fans didn’t, either. No one knows what Metallica would have sounded like if Burton had lived, but most lifers are of the mind they’d have been better, and by a significant margin.
Trujillo, a former member of Suicidal, kills that notion right in front of my eyes. Ulrich, never the most disciplined timekeeper even in his prime, is struggling to keep up with the rest of his bandmates. But that hardly matters because Trujillo carries the entire song practically on his own. No wonder this band managed to successfully come back after Trujillo joined them. The man has been their secret weapon the whole time. That’s why he’s able to make “Orion” feel so enormous tonight, along with every song that follows: “Nothing Else Matters” (a truly great power ballad which, if you pay close attention to the lyrics, isn’t actually about anything), “Seek & Destroy,” and concert highlight “One.” None of these performances take me back, and I don’t want them to. They’re indelible right now. New. Alive. I arrived at this stadium wet and nursing a cold. I no longer give a fuck. My throat is now raw from singing along, and I like it.
And we haven’t even gotten to “Enter Sandman” yet. That’s the Metallica song that everyone here, even the casuals, knows. So the band saves it for last. I knew they would. And when Hetfield launches into that iconic opening riff, I know that my demolished voice box still has room for one more. Light has exited. Night has entered. The crowd detonates. I’m gonna remember every second of this shit, because this band is my life. Fucking. Metallica.