stream of metallica

Thursday night was INSANE oh my god. Crazy day. Two meetings. Three projects demanding my full attention. Computer monitor goes gray. Restart! Computer sounds like jet engine. Restart! Don’t Panic.

Make it through the day. Get It All Done. Shut down, sign on door. Out Friday. Stop at King Kullen, get a six pack of Coronas for my friends. Have driver’s license ready, which of course means it’s the one time the cashier doesn’t ask to see it.

Get to my friends’ house. Avoid the ice on the steps they both warned me about. Get tackled by their massive mastiff. Pet dog, smooth wrinkles on her forehead, make new friend. Stop petting; she makes sad eyes. Have to pet her until other friend and pizza arrives.

Pizza and beer good. On the road, blasting Death Magnetic. Friend’s wife lights up cigarette; asks if I mind. Their car; I don’t mind. Soon wheezing, but don’t care; on the road to METALLICA!!

Road to coliseum packed with traffic. Glad I’m not one of the guys walking out in the cold selling t-shirts. Find parking a mile away by Hofstra. Long walk. Cold walk. Icy walk. People still arriving; clearly no one cared about the opening acts. Inside a sea of people. Crazy. Packed shoulder to shoulder with metalheads from 18 to 50; not fun. Find the entrance to our section, no line. Find a bathroom, line extends three gates away from where we’re sitting. By the door someone tries to cut; I hold the line. Inside, cutting asshole starts suggesting people relieve themselves in the sinks. I’m not a violent man. I’m certain I may throw a punch before the evening is over.

Inside, reunite with friends, find seats. Great seats. Up high, but not all the way at the top, and perfectly centered on the long side of the stage with a clear view of the band and the pits. In the pit, I see a fist thrown and a shirt torn. Security swarms, a sea of yellow blazers. Security scatters, a flurry of fists. Drunken a-hole vanishes again beneath overwhelming odds.

Lights drop. Guitars riff. Lasers dance around the stage. Lights around the stage are attached to giant coffins, mimicking the design of the new album. Shadowy figures take position amid the lasers. Someone is screaming “METALLICAAAAA!!!!!” and doing a great impression of my voice. I’m level with the speakers and the sound is filling me. With each song I feel energized and alive, like I have the power to do anything.

I’ve never seen them live before. They play a few songs from Death Magnetic, then kick back to older stuff, mostly Black album. But then helicopter sounds herald One from And Justice for All, and they follow with Master of Puppets. The mosh pit is going insane. Hetfield encourages the crowd to sing along. He tells us Long Island rocks; we believe every word. Different colored fire jets erupt from the stage around Lars and his annoying receding hairline. The strange urge to throw a punch returns, but it could be from the kid next to me who shouts for them to play St. Anger. I hope he’s kidding.

Kirk is an artist live, given the spotlight more than once to let his fingers dance the strings. Rob is a beast, a solid bassist with arms like tree trunks and an energy that complements the others. James and Rob have dueling riffs up on the boxes that were jetting flames moments earlier. I fear the worst, but no one gets burned. James gives the others a break as he addresses the crowd, asking who’s seeing them for the first time. He’s talking to me. My arm shoots up as do many others. James thanks us and asks what took us so long. The “St. Anger” punk protests that he wasn’t born yet when they started. I still feel like hitting him, but I also feel old. James asks who the veteran fans are and the uproar is even greater.

They play Cyanide, my favorite song from the new album and insane live. Every time I’d listen to it I’d imagine how it would look and sound live; it exceeds my expectations. My friend’s wife is surprised because she’d checked the song list before the show and Cyanide wasn’t on there; we’re all happy for surprises. There’s nothing like recognizing the opening strains of a favorite song, the excitement and anticipation of realizing what’s coming. Kirk fiddles in the spotlight for a few moments before transitioning into Nothing Else Matters. They’re bringing the energy down now, preparing people for the inevitable end. We still get some heavy stuff, even older stuff like Damage, Inc. and Kill ‘em All. They completely avoid songs from every album that sucked between the black album and Death Magnetic. Amid the smoke and fights and fires and lasers I’m engulfed in an experience that will be with me forever. The show goes into overtime and we get one last encore, a rendition of “Seek and Destroy” that demands crowd participation. I won’t have a voice left in the morning. From catwalks, a crew drops black inflatable balls for the crowd to bat around as the band reaches its big finish.

By the time we get back to the car, some of my hearing has returned. We sit in the parking lot forever, and I enjoy one last Corona. I’m so glad I decided to go. When I was being crushed in the lobby then waiting on the insane bathroom line, I was hating every minute and realizing why I haven’t gone to more concerts in my life. But for two and a half hours I forgot all of that, and I was alive.

Back home tired, typing out thoughts as they come to me, not bothering with links or normal sentence structure. Trying to recapture the energy of the moment before it fades completely. During “One” I called my mom’s cell phone which is always off; I can’t wait to listen to that four or five minute voicemail. I hope that doesn’t get me in trouble, but it can’t be any worse than the hundreds of digital cameras I saw held up filming the entire set. Most of all, I’m glad I took Friday off.

Metallica ROCKS. Wow.