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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 occourence, 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 rats 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.
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 Hammet 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 songs 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". Hetfeild added, "I geuss 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 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.
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 - 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.
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 thier 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. 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/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' 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, 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 unconcious 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, just not 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 beleive 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 freinds - 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 gaurdrail 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 Hetfeild 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 -
*****-----*****
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