To Live Is To Die
1
"That not dead which eternal lie, and in stranger aeons, even Death may die"
H.P. Lovecraft
"Who the hell are you?" asks Cliff Burton. A dark figure stands before him, no emotions upon its face. Holding up a sickle, it asks in a dark voice, "Is this not enough of a hint?"
Unimpressed by the sarcasm, Cliff shrugs. "The glorious Angel of Death, I presume?"
"I am he. You can call me Death, for short."
Goddamn, it's cold, the bassist thinks. But was he a bassist anymore? He sees himself as the ambulance crew places a sheet over his body. His band mates look onto the whole event as the tour manager tries to console them. James cries openly. Kirk is weeping softly, leaning against a terror-stricken Lars. They seem frozen in a terrible moment of time that refuses to pass.
And then it hit him…Cliff Burton, bassist of Metallica, was undoubtedly dead.
To hell with that, he thinks.
"This is bullshit, man. No way." He shakes his head, running his fingers through his auburn mane.
"The end comes to all, Cliff. It is not an ignoble thing."
But Cliff can't-won’t-hear him. "I ain't dying, man. No Goddamn way. I can't die. There's too much at stake, here."
Death rolls his eyes. "I've heard that story before, Cliff. Honestly, why should you not die? What makes you more important than, say some child with leukemia? Do you think he wants to go when the time comes?"
"That's a cheap shot, man." You son of a bitch, thinks Cliff. Scowling, he shoves a finger in Death's face. "But . . . I'll tell you about leukemia - Music is infected with it. It's smeared with dishonesty, choked off by boundaries, and rotted with greed. My band, Metallica, we're the cure for that, you could say. And JUST when we're about ready to scratch the surface… along comes Mister Death and pulls the carpet out from under us. What, do you get your jollies cutting people off just as they hit the prime of their life? Morbid jerk-off."
"Nice speech," Death says, "but it delays the inevitable. We must be going."
Cliff is beside himself - almost literally. Exasperated, he asks, "You don't get it, do you? This isn't about me - I'm not being selfish here. I devoted my life to music, and now music's ill. It looks just as desolate as this!" He points to the frozen tundra around the highway. "It'll die off if we don't do something about it. Or is that what you want, too?"
"Music," mutters Death. "Assuredly, it is sick. I mean, aren't we all nauseous at the sight of Motley Crue?"
"Exactly," said Cliff. "I…"
Death waves him off. "I'm not done yet. About death - it's not final, Cliff. You can go to a world far more magnificent than you can imagine. All of your wildest dreams can be at your fingertips - a mere wish away."
"Sounds terrific. But I like to fight for what I want - and I'll fight to the death to re-establish integrity into the soul of music. Listen, pal - there's a time to reap, and there's a time to sow. The time to reap is not now. Sow me back together and let me return. Reap me another day."
"Have you no faith that your band members could continue the fight without you? Don't you have faith that they would win in the end?"
Cliff looks around. His band mates are slowly shuffling away, mired in sorrow. “It’s doubtful. So doubtful it hurts." He turns again to face Death, staring intently at him.
"Hurt? Humph . . . you don't know the meaning of hurt. No, I don't think you do. I mean, sure, I can turn the clock back, bring you back to life. But if I do - you're not going to just jump back on stage tomorrow night, get my meaning? If I arrive on the scene, it's not because I want to play checkers. Something’s going down, understand? That bus is going to flip one way or the other."
"So let it be done," Cliff quotes.
Death turns somber. "I am creeping death, assuredly. Most people never get a second chance, Cliff. Understand this - you will not receive a third chance. I will come for you someday. Agreed?”" Solemnly, Cliff nods in agreement. "By the way, have you ever had three tons of machinery pin you to the ground before?" Death asks.
"Uh, gee, no. That ain't my style."
"Sorry to hear that."
2
James Hetfield—"Trapped Under Ice"
James feels terror welling up in the pit of his stomach. "What?" he asks. After a pause, the voice comes again. "I'm under the goddamn bus, man."
MTV News, Sept. 28, 1986
"There was a terrible accident this week in rock. En route to a gig in Denmark, Metallica's tour bus flipped over on an icy stretch of road. There were no fatalities, however the bass player, Cliff Burton, was severely injured.
"A spokesperson for the band said it appears that Burton's left arm was broken and his left hand shattered. Also, Burton suffered a severe spinal injury. Metallica's spokesperson says Burton may never play again, let alone walk…The remaining European tour dates have consequently been canceled, with no immediate plans for the future."
Interview with Lars Ulrich in RIP Magazine (Dec. 86)
RIP: How is Cliff's therapy coming?
Lars Ulrich: Absolutely remarkable. You wouldn't believe it! The resolve. . . I remember back in October, he was in tears when the doctors told him he'd never walk again, and then just last week he can wiggle his toes, whereas he couldn't do anything before. He obviously, like you could imagine, gets very frustrated, you know, because he’ll basically have to learn how to walk again. We always take these things for granted. Like I could get up now and get another beer without even thinking about it…
RIP: So he was paralyzed?
LU: From the waist down, I guess he was. But he's working with some specialized surgeons and therapists. They just might get him back on his feet. I’ll shit my pants the day that happens!
RIP: This must have also strengthened the resolve of the band.
LU: You know, I thought it was the end of the world when Master of Puppets was certified gold. But speaking for myself, now that Cliff's accident has happened, there's been a major shift in priorities. I wouldn't say that we've grown as a band, because that's kind of an odd subject right now. But we certainly have come together as four individuals.
RIP: Are there any plans for the band?
LU: Well, you know he's essentially paralyzed. But he could care less. He's more infuriated with his hand than anything else. He probably won't ever be able to play…I mean, not the way he used to. Some of his nerves and tendons were damaged. It's all he can do to make a fist. So, having said that .
RIP: Is there a band at this point?
LU: James was very much against Cliff (Burnstein, manager) and Peter's (Mensch, manager) using the word "band" for awhile. He was very worried about Cliff, as a friend, but in the back of his mind he, just like Kirk and I, wondered about the future of Metallica. Right now we're just glad that Cliff's alive, and everything else - all the industry bullshit - doesn't amount to shit. I just want to add that we're overwhelmed with the tons of mail we have received from fans - mountains of get well cards. The guy who runs our fan club is kinda freaking out. I'm certain, though, we'll work something together. It's just that this is such an odd time.
RIP: If there were one person who could see it through, most people would say it would be you.
LU: I guess, in the early days, I was a bandleader of sorts. We've gone through quite a bit to get to where we are. This is quite different, though. I've come to realize it's a bit more than one guy can handle alone. We're all working through this together. The bond of Metallica, as individuals, is growing even stronger. If we do manage to pull ourselves out of this, I seriously doubt anything else could bog us down like this ever again.
Interview With James Hetfield in Kerrang! (July 87)
Kerrang: Can you tell us the status of Metallica?
James Hetfield: We went through some changes since last fall with Cliff's accident.
K: What types of changes?
JH: We had a band meeting around March. We decided that we wanted to continue with a new bass player, but we didn't wish to kick Cliff out of the band cause he can't play anymore. He's going to take on a more creative role within the band. He wants to get into producing.
K: He's producing the soon to be released E.P?
JH: Yeah. He doesn’t really know too much about that kind of stuff, but what do you really need to know? "Hey, where's the volume knob?" that kind of thing. If he can turn it up he's got the job, (laughs). Don't forget to hit the record button, either.
K: What can we expect from the EP?
JH: A bunch of covers from the Misfits, Diamond Head. We recorded them with the new bass player.
K: Tell us about the newest member.
JH: His name is Jason Newsted. We tease him pretty bad, like how he freaks out when Cliff is watching him jam. He gets wicked antsy. He can jam, though. A lot of the people we tried to audition thought it was a rally to impress Cliff, instead of being an opportunity to be in Metallica. One guy came in and played way outta tune. We basically threw him out. Another guy talked too much. One of Kirk’s friends showed up, but he was into a major funk, slap-bass type of thing, which was fun, but its not really our style. Jason had the right attitude. He basically passed all the tests, including the 'go out drinking with Metallica' test (laughter)
K: Are there any plans to tour?
JH: Well, we plan to do some warm up shows in Japan, and then head over here to do the Monsters gig. Then after that we'll do some more headline shows.
K: Jason is a full member now?
JH: When erect, yes. (Laughs)
K: (confused) Huh?
JH: Yeah, he is. I mean, Cliff will still be there, but he can't play, so we needed someone who could play on tour but also give some input in the studio. I hate the term "hired hand", so we made Jason an official Metallica member after a long night of drinking Vodka. We have two bass drums, why not have two bass guitars! (Laughs)
K: What will Cliff be doing when you are on tour?
JH: More therapy. He wants to walk again. But more than that, he wants to play again, too. He wants to walk out onstage and play like he used to, and no matter what, he refuses to take no for an answer.
K: Is he getting better?
JH: Lots. He's got feeling back in his legs now, but since his knees and his hip got severely damaged, there's not much he can do. He can't stand erect, he goes around the studio - actually Lars' garage - and tries to flip people the bird with his injured hand. He's in a wheelchair. Last week, he and Jason actually played the same bass at the same time! It was cool to watch. Cliff picked the strings and Jason did the fretwork.
K: There's also a video coming out?
JH: Cliff's met a lot of paraplegic fans throughout his ordeal. He inspired some, and was inspired by others. He thought some kind of donation could help more underprivileged people who, for whatever reason, can't get the kind of treatment that he can afford. We're gonna have a certain amount of proceeds from the video go to a foundation.
K: What is on the video?
JH: A bunch of stuff from the early days. It's kinda like having your very own bootleg, except this isn't some 15th generation crap tape from a tape trader. Instead of doing the typical nine-camera, super-duty phonic sound thing, with fuckin' super-stereo this, that, and the other thing, we thought of a different approach. Some of it's real primitive. It's hella-Metallica, though.
3
"Secretly, silently, certainly, in vertigo you will be.
This shortest straw has been pulled for you"
James Hetfield—The Shortest Straw
Review Of "...And Justice For All" (Elektra) Rolling Stone Magazine (June 1989) Metallica is back. The San Francisco thrash band's new album ...And Justice For All screams this point into your brain time and time again. This band of musicians have bounced back marvelously from the accident of Cliff Burton, who has co-producing credits with Fleming Rasmussen. Burton also has two song writing credits, the grinding instrumental "To Live Is To Die" and the somber ballad "One" which he penned with guitarist/vocalist James Hetfield.
Seattle, Washington, August 30th 1989
A grin comes over Burton’s face as a sweaty Kirk Hammett exits the stage. "Man, you guys are slaying out there!" he exclaims. "You blew 'em all to hell!" Kirk smiles, exhaustion enveloping him although he's exuberant at the same time. 4 "I’m just like a piece of meat that keeps on living…why don’t they just kill me?" Johnny Got His Gun October 4th, 1990 Review Of Metallica In RIP Magazine, December 91 METALLICA: Metallica (5 stars) Washington D.C, RFK Stadium - Soundcheck (July 16th, 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. July 28th 1992 Press Conference Q: Is it true about the rumors of Cliff returning to the stage? Lars Ulrich: Absolutely. Tomorrow 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. Almost six years. It's a dream come true for him . . . and for us as well.
Review Of Metallica at Giants Stadium - July 29th, 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. …. After the show At Giants Stadium - July 29th, 1992 The next gig would be August 8th at the Olympic Stadium in Montreal, Quebec. 5 "Landmine-has taken my sight, taken my speech, taken my hearing, Taken my arms, taken my legs, taken my soul, left me with life in hell" James Hetfield-- "One" Olympic Stadium, Montreal Quebec, August 8th 1992
"Metal!" he says, and gives Burton a high five.
Jason Newsted is leaning on a roadie as he saunters off-stage. He looks at Cliff and gives an evil grin. It soon turns to a full on satanic countenance. "Does your mother let you out of the house like that?" asks Burton cheerfully. He's taken quite a liking to the bass prodigy-in-the-making. "Your bass went out. I couldn't hear you."
“Yeah, I know. It really sucked. I was depressed for a moment," says Jason while keeping his demonic pose. It looks so comical, Kirk and Cliff burst out laughing, followed by Jason and his roadie.
James comes into the hysteria, and says nothing. It's total Metalli-time to him, and he's not easily swayed by whatever antics Cliff is up to now. Last week Cliff wheeled himself onstage during Battery and tried to give him a wedgie in front of ten thousand lunatics. He hands his ESP to his roadie, grabs a beer and downs it. He stretches, ignoring them, and reaches for another guitar. "What're we doing next?" James asks.
“Let's jam on something," suggests Lars as he rushes off-stage. He towels himself off and kisses Burton on the cheek. Cliff then pinches Lars's butt with his bad hand, surprised at the dexterity he can manage these days.
Jason starts to play the "Wizard of Oz" intro of Frayed Ends Of Sanity. He can plainly hear the audience chanting along with him. Suddenly James starts playing it, and Lars rushes to his drums. As Kirk follows them on-stage, Cliff yells out; "Break a leg, man!"
Kirk sticks his tongue out, then says, "Well, we sure as shit ain't here to play checkers!" He leaves into the glare of the stage lights.
‘Where have I heard that before?’ wonders Cliff. ‘I . . .’
"Boo," says Death, appearing from out of nowhere. ‘No . . . no,’ Cliff thinks. He assumes he's dreaming.
"Relax, no one can hear us. And I'm not here to come for you. Frankly, it's just one of those rare occasions that I'm not here for anyone."
"Well what do you want?"
Death crosses his arms, shakes his head. "I'm unimpressed, Cliff. It was by this time that I had expected your battle would have been won. But the barriers you described to me have not been broken down."
"Yet," counters Cliff. "You gave me a pretty bad bargain, you dick."
Death frowns. "I didn't need to give you a bargain at all. You're on the threshold of something great, Cliff. This band is one step away from truly taking a giant leap. Integrity - something else you mentioned - that's not there, yet, not in music. But I'm here to tell you - many people in high places are watching you, Cliff. The greedy labels, Poseur bands . . . they see a man who is only in it for the music. They hear that you are more furious that you cannot play than not being able to walk. Assuredly, the entire band is in it for the music - but they are but the lamp. You, my friend, are the shining light, the beacon of strength. The problem is secondary. You need to focus on the solution, which is, to win the fight. And how is that accomplished? By making a great thrash album, or by making a great Metallica album? Which is the proper goal?"
Cliff didn't understand. "What?"
"You're the one who took music theory. You tell me."
"You mean to say our music's isn't good enough?"
The dark figure nods. "What did I mention - barriers? Perhaps you should not focus so much on the barriers of the sickened music industry, but instead the barriers of Metallica, the band. Then, heads will roll. Those people I mentioned, they're on the verge of questioning their own motives and their own goals. It doesn't mean that they'll all become Metallica fans, but it means that they'll take stock of themselves and see what they are. Then, perhaps, integrity will be restored. Yet to have integrity, there must be dishonesty. You must be prepared to accept that standoff. It's the only way to assure that music remains healthy long after your passing."
Cliff stares at the dark figure for a time. "Sounds like a deal," he says. "Now be gone, Mister Death. I got a show to watch and you're in my way."
"As you wish." He leaves instantly.
James bellows, "Adrenaline starts to flow - you're thrashing all around - acting like a maniac- "
"Whiplash," Cliff says to himself, and takes a sip of his beer.
"Frustrated is more like it," Cliff says, weary from thirty rigorous minutes of leg exercises. Hanging in a specialized harness meant to assist him in strengthening the proper muscles for walking (or just standing erect), Cliff pounds his fist against the parallel bars. They're meant for him to use like a walker an elderly person would use. He would lean on them while edging his feet forward. Before he could have arrived at this stage, though, he had undergone even more rigorous therapy for his left hand and forearm muscles. It was working, though. The other day he'd picked his nose with the rehabilitated hand and flung a booger at Kirk. But lately . . . ‘Dammit, this walking business is bullshit’, he thinks. ‘I get to hang here like a goddamn slab of bacon for two 90-mintute sessions a week. I'm but a shadow of my former self and there's no point in lying to myself; sometimes I think I was better off dead.’
"Would you like to take a break, sir?" she asks.
"Get me out of this," he says, pointing to the harness, shaking his head.
She helps him out of the harness, and into his wheelchair. She turns to get some salve, as the harness chafes his underarm. When she comes back though, she sees him wheeling toward the door. "Mr. Burton?"
The door slamming shut is the only sound he makes. Whatever has come over him lately? His progress has been nothing short of miraculous these past few months . . . but recently he began to get antsy and discouraged. She prayed he'd come out of it soon.
‘Fuck this’, he thinks, whizzing down the clinics halls as though it's the Daytona raceway. ‘That bastard should've taken me back in 86. I can't possibly do this. To hell with fans, to hell with friends - who am I kidding? Music will have to fight it's own battles. I was once a soldier, yes, but now I'm but an empty shell.’
He ignores the receptionist’s farewell. Arriving at the exit, he opens the door - and is greeted by none other than Lars Ulrich.
Cliff is surprised to see him. Lars, too, seems a bit taken aback, but quickly grabs the wheelchair's handles and rushes at a breakneck pace to the parking lot. Cliff wonders idly if he's being kidnapped or something.
"Take it easy on these old bones," he says jokingly while his knuckles turn white. But Lars doesn't hear him.
"You gotta hear this, Cliff. We were working on it earlier today and I had to get it out here to you. I even got a speeding ticket!" No wonder, Cliff muses. "But I told the cop I was Rikki Rocket, so . . ." He stops at his black Porsche, rolls down the tinted windows. He then parks Cliff right beside the passenger side door. Lars pops into the driver's seat, turns his radio on - actually, more like a Marshall stack - and inserts a cassette into the tape deck. He aims for the play button, but he is so excited and nervous he accidentally hits the FM switch, and Neil Diamond starts blaring.
"Oops!" laughs Lars. He again aims for the correct button. This time his aim is on the money. Music far different than Neil Diamond emerges from the Dane's speakers. Awe overcomes Cliff as the song nears one of several climaxes. James voice, "a bit rough," explains Lars, can be clearly heard. The guitar work makes smooth transitions from a metallic verse to a gentle chorus. It's unlike anything he's ever heard. And his band made it. His band.
“Never free, never me . . . so I dub thee unforgiven," sings James.
He'd already heard the other three so far - one of them was called Sad But True, something Burton wholeheartedly loved from the first power chord to the last. It had the flavor of old, but the balls and style of the new. But this - this ballad - damn, James always did have a hell of a talent for ballads. But, he thinks, it's an ass-kicking ballad. It's hella Metallica. Presently he runs out of words to explain the song. Which, as far as he's concerned, is all right. Soon the song ends, and Burton is left speechless.
Which can't be said for some of the clinic workers, screaming across the parking lot in their general direction: "Turn that noise off!" It's a ballad and it still pisses people off . . . Cliff likes it immensely.
The therapist walks to the receptionist’s desk, asking if she'd seen Mr. Burton when suddenly Lars wheels him through the double doors. She gives Lars a look usually reserved for fresh road-kill, then turns to Cliff. It's back, she thinks - that spark in his eyes.
“Get me back in that thing," Cliff insists as he and Lars shoot past her. Once in the exercise room, Lars manages to get Cliff half out of his chair before she rushes into the room. "Please, sir!" she says sternly to Lars.
Ulrich backs away and lets the therapist do her job. After a moment Cliff is dangling inside of some contraption. Lars doesn't know what it is. But suddenly he sees his old band mate do the impossible - he takes a step. Then another. Then another.
Now it's Lars' turn to be speechless.
You might chalk it up to the departure of longtime producer Fleming Rasmussen. You might chalk it up to new producer Bob Rock. You might chalk it up to the unbreakable spirit of co-producer/band mate 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 masterpiece here.
The albums' magnificence isn't immediately apparent. The first things 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 are the nine-minute epics, the monstrous instrumentals. In their place are songs that are a bit more scaled down without losing 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 "The Unforgiven" 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 track "The God That Failed". These, like the other songs on the album, expand inside your head with every new spin.
That's the single 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.
"Bloody hell," mutters Hughes.
Lars interjects. "I don't think it'll work. What about the segueway into The Unforgiven? Better try that one 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. "Whaddaya 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!!"
From the opening chords of "Enter Sandman", it was obvious this would be a special night. When it came time for the sing-along chant in "Creeping Death", James Hetfield barked, "We have a very special friend backstage. He can't hear you! Repeat after me!" Then came the unforgettable sight of forty thousand Jersey-ites chanting "Die!" I swear, even the security guards 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 of which Burton was the primary writer. Hetfield and Kirk Hammett joined him, providing a near complete version of the song. Next came "The Four Horsemen", it's vicious attack complemented by Lars Ulrich's explosive drumming.
By this time, shouts of "Cliff!" can be heard. Everyone seems to know something is supposed to happen here tonight - and happen it does. It's Newsted who comes out and introduces Burton to the crowd. Cliff waves, touched by the tsunami of applause, then dives 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 - slay 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 are deafening. Everyone else was cheering, too.
Burton also joins them for four other songs: the dark ballad "Fade To Black", and the epic "Master Of Puppets". Only half of "Master" is played, and it soon turns 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 . . .
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 band mates 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 fulfilled your dream and returned back to the stage with your former bandmates, what are your plans?"
They would expect him to say, "I’m going to 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 moshpit 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."
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 same page - stagehands 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 feel 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 business, Metallistyle. We just cross our fingers and kick ass. He puts as much distance between him and the stage monitors as is possible. He assumes the safest place would be out on the wings.
He assumes wrongly.
Montreal, Quebec, St. Joseph's Hospital, Level B (Intensive Care)
6 "All this I cannot bear to witness any longer. Cannot the kingdom of salvation take me home?" Cliff Burton—"To Live Is To Die" James wakes, staring at the ceiling. No, wait a minute here. What is the rug doing on the fucking ceiling? What the hell is going on here? 7 "Some die but don’t stay, some don’t live to tell" Robert Wallace Olympic Stadium, Montreal Quebec, August 8th 1992 Montreal, Quebec, St. Joseph's Hospital, Level A 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. THE END
"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. Bloody fucking 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 . . . umm . . . 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. Doctors 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 and a heart monitor. All they're waiting for is to rush in should he go into cardiac arrest.
He wheels himself in, not so sure it was a good idea. He enters anyway, and stops by James' 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 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. 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 said that you could have your way? You said you can turn the clock back . . . so turn it back, just not earlier tonight, but way back - all the way back." Death turns, smirking.
"To the beginning 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 fuckin’ 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 band mates - 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 friend, 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 vague 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.
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 offered was 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 alright?"
"I guess so. What the fuck happened?" James asks.
"The umm . . . bus tipped over and he umm . . . he's dead, man."
James has never seen his bandmate so shaken, so distraught. It scares him out of his wits. He asks, "Who's dead? Who?"
Kirk lowers his face to the ground. "Cliff"
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 - stagehands 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 out-do 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.
"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 business, Metallistyle. We just cross our fingers and kick ass. He puts as much distance between him 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 James suddenly remembers that the pyro isn't by the monitors . . . and there are 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.
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 it?" 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 set, but instead decides it doesn’t matter much. James was all right, a little beaten up, but nothing a little time wouldn’t heal. As the song said, nothing else mattered.
Feeling pretty mellow, he decides to have fun with the apparition. "Hey… Cliff. What’s up . . . man?"
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…metal . . . man. Fuck."
"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. "It’s . . . fucking shit, man… Sh . . . shoulda’ been there… Fucking Lars and his . . . drum tracks…."
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."
"What are…you…talking about?" asks James "Wh . . . where 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, "Wh…where’s 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 Misfits are . . . dead, man."
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? Misfit shows? This is one hella-dream. But anyway . . . "Hey… put it here… man." He offers Cliff his hand. To his surprise, 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.’
"You are…. the best, Cliff."
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.
