Rob the Gob

Why might Lars Ulrich, the drummer of Metallica, think that
I own half of Yorkshire? Well… because I told him I did as a joke, and I don’t
know whether-or-not he knew I was joking. Which singular strangeness only begins
to describe the weirdness of yesterday in the vaguest of terms. As narrative
cliché would have it, it all started with a phonecall.

My friend had won some tickets to a Metallica gig in an
online competition, and was told to get himself to the venue a three of hours
later. The venue being in Newcastle, two hour’s drive away. If he got there by
five, we got to meet the band. Not knowing anyone else who has ever liked
Metallica that can get there in time, and not fancying the drive much himself
anyway, he asked me if I’d like to go. I haven’t really listened much to
Metallica since my teens, but big bombastic rock bands like that are always
excellent live, so I said yes, showered, shaved and jumped in the car.

It’s only really at this point that it starts to occur to me
what’s about to happen. Metallica are the foundation rock upon which the brooding
and expansive church of modern metal is founded. They are unlike any other band
in the world, a huge institution, really. Whether you like Metal or not – I still
like to dip my ears in to the heavy stuff now and again, a flirtatious relationship
that will doubtless annoy the more evangelical types of all persuasions, but I
care not – Metallica are a group that command a certain level of respect. Some
of the lyrics are a bit daft, and the whole thing has a rather indulgently
juvenile and unashamedly male feel to it, and this puts some people off, but in
many ways this is one of its greatest strengths. Metal, and rock music in
general, has had a tendency to disappear into tail-swallowing pretension for as
long as it has existed. When it doesn’t, it has tended to be so silly and
shallow that it can be easily dismissed into amusing cliché. Metallica has trod
this fine line for years, with varying degrees of success, but they have never
entirely toppled one way or another. They can do an album with an orchestra and
get away with it somehow, yet still jump about singing a song about
difficulties falling asleep. The reason they can get away with it is two-fold.
Firstly, in terms of musicianship, they write tight riffs with clear, driving
themes, (and play them impeccably – they really are very serious about it).
These are peppered with interesting rhythmic breaks and compelling solos, and
accented well by Hetfield’s voice; but at the core it is this strong rhythmic
work, that keeps you engaged. Secondly, it is the sheer joy of it. They put on
a fantastic show, know how to deal with a crowd, and how to motivate and focus
their fans without having to just distract them. It’s impossible not to want to
join in. Their stage presence is awesome, and you watch the band, not the
lightshow. It’s music to join in with rather than just listen to. You move and
mosh with it, pump your hands in the air, chant, scream and sing along with it.
If you ever put the album on and sit their quietly trying to analyse the music,
you’re missing the point. Get caveman – those energetic, darkly aggressive
revelry bits that come drifting up to the surface when you hear heavy rock –
those are part of you too. Those feelings are not intrinsically bad. You don’t
have to do it all the time, but let yourself be in that way now and again.
That’s what Metallica is for.

We meet a little group of people who are going to meet the
band outside – they’re all seriously hardcore fans. My friend looks like a
part-timer by comparison. I’m only just stealthy enough to pass, and decide
early on to keep my gob shut lest my lack of obsession expose me as someone who
doesn’t have ‘Metallica’ tattooed upon every neuron (and is thereby undeserving
of such honour). A helpful guy runs off to get us programs, so that we can have
something to sign. We’re taken to a room full of odd-looking cases – it turns
out to be the Metallica laundry room, and the things that look like amp cases
actually contain washing machines. We are told a few rules by a man I can only
assume is the Metallica tour manger. He’s so efficient, direct, authoritative
and firm that I feel like a private soldier trying to follow the instructions
of a five-star general. Most of which involve standing still and waiting. It’s
good that he covers that so thoroughly, because there is going to be a lot of
it. Some of the people in the room are clearly massive Metallica fanboys, quivering,
one seeming excited right from the core – a deep excitement that only normally
manifests momentarily in children. They want this moment to make them feel
fulfilled. Others more serious-minded enthusiasts, feeling deeply honoured to
meet their heroes, one guy has picture from a gig that Metallica played in the
eighties in Newcastle, that he had attended. I feel like a fake, and have to
keep reminding myself that ‘earning’ experiences like this is a ridiculous lie
that fans tell themselves. It wouldn’t stop them hating me, though, even though
I have actually seen Metallica before, and enjoyed them, the mere fact that I’m
capable of bringing my critical faculty to bear upon the band would be enough
to find my corpse in the Tyne in the morning, flesh mostly gnawed away from the
bone.

We patiently await the whim of the band’s dispositions. I’m
closes to the door that they emerge from. It’s all quite awkward from my
perspective, and I think from theirs too. The new boy of the band Rob Trujillo,
comes out first. He’s immensely likable, and seems pretty relaxed, but I really
don’t know what to say to him beyond ‘alright man, how are you doing?’ The
whole thing just feels a bit awkward. James Hetfield’s next – he is a big lad,
likeable, if a little intimidating. I exchange a few more awkward words. Some
of the others ask him a bout tattoos and such. I know enough about him to only
ask awkward questions, and so refrain once again. He leaves and eventually Kirk
Hammett turns up, we exchange a few more strained words where I accidentally
answer a question wrongly and from that point neither of us knows what to say.
Kirk seems the least comfortable with the whole thing. I can’t say as I blame
him. It’s one of the oddest situations you can put two people in, and the assumed
disparity between us informs our interaction. I know his first name. They
recognise the futility of even asking for mine. I am one of the little people,
they are walking gods of rock, shinning stars which I should feel grateful to
simply behold. This is the assumption of the situation, not, I feel, either of
the people involved; this is the way it has been arranged, and there’s nothing
that my self-respect, nor their humility, could possibly do overcome that.

Then I turn to see Lars Ulrich has popped his head through
the door. He decides to amuse himself, me and the others by engaging me in a
jokey manner. He immediately breaks into character as a Metallica fan, and asks
me. ‘Is this where I come to see the band? Are they here?’ I do my best to play
along and reply. ‘Yeah, Kirk’s in here.’

Staying in character he says ‘Oh, is he the drummer? I want
to see the singer. Has he been here yet?’

I giggle, pleased to have been invited into a joke, and cock
my head. ‘Sorry, mate, you’ve missed him. He was here a while ago, but he’s
gone now.’

‘Oh damn it…’, and so it goes on. Eventually he breaks
character and enters, but the banter continues. ‘So, this is like, the oldest
building in England right?’, he says, now playing the idiot American character.
I’m not quite quick enough to keep up and mumble something I can’t remember.

‘So, is this your backyard?’, he asks me. I don’t realise
that this is just his way of asking me if I’m from Newcastle, and think he’s
still making jokes.

So I reply, ‘No, but I do own half of Yorkshire.’

Had he been American, I’d have probably never made the joke,
worried about the fact that he wouldn’t get it, but he’s Danish. He must have
got that I wasn’t being serious, surely? We have a little conversation about
the inaccuracies in the film ‘Braveheart’, and then he asks me if my ancestors
we the ones who helped to defend the walls against Wallis, and I laugh it off
saying that I have no idea about my family that far back. It is only at this
point that I realise that he might have taken my ‘owning half of Yorkshire’
comment seriously. Lars moves onto my friend, and I’m left to ponder. He gives
everyone a fair turn, is very likable and amusing, and then goes off to do his
thing.

And then the girl in charge told us something else we hadn’t
known. The tickets we’d won gave us one more special privileges. There were
four of us that would get to ‘walk the band out’. By which they meant that we’d
walk them from this oddly custodial little antechamber to the edge of the stage
through a kind of tunnel of fans held back by barriers. We were told to go off
and watch the support acts for a while (as this is Metallica, of course, one of
the ‘support acts’ is Machine Head – a band that can fill large venues all by
themselves), then present ourselves at the backstage door at half-passed eight.
I wonder for a moment if I should give my place to one of the hardcore fans,
then consider how unusual an experience this is going to be for me and dismiss
the notion as ridiculous. Nobody should pass up something like this. Play the
cards that are dealt you.

It was certainly the oddest thing to happen to me for quite
some time. We arrived backstage at the appointed time and spend the next twenty
minutes dodging crew as they move huge quantities of equipment about with a
mixture of muscle, shouting and controlled aggression. We then await the band. Again
Lars is the one to try and put us at our ease. The others are all game-face.
Kirk does a few press-ups. James some kind of meditative prayer. We are handed
torches, and are told the rules once again, of which there are few. We still
don’t know exactly what we are about to do. I keep thinking – does Lars think I
actually own half of Yorkshire? The band goes into a huddle, crouched down,
dedicate the gig and focus. It’s an oddly private thing, and I feel like a
terrible voyeur. Then we’re off.

We are mixed in with the band and security, trotting along,
and then suddenly all is screaming and flashing lights. Hands from the crowd
reach out and grasp at me. They want to make contact with Metallica, but can’t
and I am a confusing proxy they can reach, not the right thing, but in the
right place. It’s exhilarating, strange, and more than a little frightening. It’s
briefness and intensity, it is stamped upon me like a series of still
photographs. I really don’t understand how, doing that every night, the band
are as sane as they are.

Then we watch the first three tunes from within the barriers
before the pyro effects mean that they have to dump us back out into the crowd.
It was intense, it was joyful, and I appreciated it greatly. The rest of the
gig passes as these things do. A mixture of wonderfully teenage manly
excitement and the Nuremburg Rally. I owe my friend a debt of thanks, and the
price of a programme. I also owe the Metallica boys, and their management team
and everyone else a thank-you too, for letting me see a brief snapshot of the
madness. And perhaps, just maybe, I owe Lars an explanation.