The Hero of the Day

In my hands were the long queued-for Metallica tickets. In 1988, my
love for these men had developed into what I considered to be a
long-term, committed relationship. I'd first became aware of them at
punk gigs, when a group of white kids with dreadlocks would jostle past
on the way to the front at the Subhumans. One grimey individual called
Tone, whom I later befriended, had tippexed Metallica on the back of
his filth-saturated denim cut-off. I had a crush on his mate Nick, who
was tall, dark and handsome, with long hair and a nose that had been
pierced both sides.

My best friend was Woody, and just before we'd met, he'd seen Metallica
play the Lyceum in London, a gig I still curse myself for missing. It
was late '84 and the music press were pinning their hopes on the young
band that had ushered in thrash metal to a jaded denim and leather
crowd. Halfway through the gig, a guy had turned round to my pal. "Oi
mate, cop hold of that, will you?" he instructed him. Woody found that
he was holding up half a huge flag with 'Metallica- METAL UP YOUR ASS!'
and a big, scary monster painted on it. From the stage, the band
exchanged looks and pointed. Woody said that he felt like a
plonker.

Over the next few years we grew up, nurtured on a diet of Kerrang!, and
Black Sabbath. Woody and I went to see bands and he was with me all the
way when I finally got to know Nick, who turned out to be a guy with
problems. Mainly to do with women, any women. "Listen sis, you bring
that Nick to meet me" Woody would say to me. "I'll be able to 'ave a
man-to-man chat with the guy, and suss out if he's good enough for my
sister."

And of course, I was there for Woody. Never more so when I called him
one day to hear his voice infused with disbelief. "Sis, 'ave you 'eard?
It's Cliff Burton from Metallica. He's dead!" Metallica's tour bus had
careered off the road in Sweden, and the freaky hippy on bass had met
his end.

"Oh my God Woody, he can't be! We only saw him last week" I gasped.
Indeed, the weekend before, Woody and I had enjoyed a two-nighter. On
the Sunday, Metallica had played to a packed Hammy Odeon. The next
night would be Mot?rhead's turn. Now that mad windmill of a man was no
more, and my blood bro' was hiding up on Wimbledon Common with a
six-pack of Holsten, having a manly sob. With or without the beauty
that was Nick, I had loved Metallica from the moment Woody played me
For Whom the Bell Tolls. A death bell knolled the intro as power chords
were pierced by Cliff Burton's compressed bass. I was in love and this
time I wasn't scared to show it.

The three surviving members found themselves a new bass player. Jason
Newstead seemed like a nice guy. And moving on from their
state-of-the-art Master of Puppets album, they went on to tour with the
first post-Cliff offering, ?And Justice for All? But I would goto these
shows alone, given that Woody had proclaimed that Metallica had gone
"too commercial". He never gave them a chance after Cliff died, saying
that their latest album sounded like heavy metal Genesis. I put it down
to the fact that he had a new girlfriend who was into Suzanne
Vega.

My ticket allowed me front row access, and so I decided to catch
Danzig, the support band. Only the most metal-minded would go in for
support act. The cool ones stayed drinking in the bar until the third
bell. Post-Danzig, the roadies ran around the stage, setting up pedal
boards and going gaffa-tape crazy. Above Lars' drum riser rose Lady
Justice blindfolded, her scales tipping precariously. Like AC/DC with
their huge, inflatable Rosie, Metallica's stage props were a sure sign
that they were now of rock stadium league. When I had arrived, there
were a few seats empty in Row A. It wouldn't hurt to sit there, I told
myself, and you never know, the guy might not show up.

"HEY! WHO'S IN MY CHAIR? GET OUTTA MY CHAIR!!!" came an American voice.
I looked up to see a chubby, panic-stricken teenager, steam jutting out
of his ears.

"It's okay mate, I'm just keeping it warm for you" I smiled, bolstered
by the fact that we were at a Metallica gig. "There you go, no
worries." I got up and went back to my seat, expecting him to calm down
and say hey cheers, like any other friendly metalhead.

But it hadn't been okay with him. "JUST GET OUTTA MY CHAIR, GIRL! I
PAID FOR THIS SEAT, OK?" he yelled.

"All right mate!" I replied, immediately on the defensive. "No one's
pinching your bloody seat." Meanwhile, a girl sat on the stage. She had
the obligatory shaggy perm and leather mini skirt of a heavy metal
chick, and a skintight Saxon T-shirt. The band were a while from
storming the stage, and she writhed around the stage, shouting
"METALLICA! METALLICA!"

Groupies!

But all was forgotten as the lights dimmed and the crowd got ready for
the metal militia. Blackened rang round the heavy metal temple, as one
by one the players marched onto the stage, armed with their instruments
of torment. James Hetfield, leading the artillery with big arms and
power chords like Uzi fire. Hair like a lion, voice deep with potency,
Gibson Explorer slung low and snarling. My animus! Best buddy Lars, who
legend says answered Jimbo's ad in the LA Recycler to start a New Wave
of British Heavy Metal band, throwing down beats no DJ has ever
bettered. Jason 'Newkid' Newstead on his five-string bass, hoping that
we'd like him. And Kirk Hammett, lead guitarist.

He was beautiful, wasn't he? Almost obscenely so, with his brown eyes,
full lips and cascades of dark mahogany curls. He looked a lot like
Suzanna Hoffs of the Bangles and I imagined how good it would be to
rescue him from a wicked witch, insanely jealous of his exquisite
looks, who'd locked him in a tower until his beauty disintegrated. My
senses impregnated by man's music, I looked at curly Kirk and wondered
what a nice girl like him was doing in an aggressive place like this. A
joust should be set up in his honour, I thought, wherein Joan Jett and
I battled it out with big poles on horseback for the hand of the lovely
Lady Hammett. And he'd press his favour into my hand, his fretboard
cleaning cloth, hoping that I would be the winner?

Just then, the Lady Justice model tumbled and almost hit Kirk on the
head. I gave a little gasp of horror as I caught his eye. And then I
noticed the groupies. They surrounded me and simpered at Kirk's feet,
recommending their wares. He ignored them and made eye contact with the
lads, pulling faces as he played a series of triplets effortlessly. I
was devastated. It was like the time I saw AC/DC, and Brain Johnson
bantered with the crowd. "All right lads?" he'd said. I'd felt excluded
and as a result, became an honorary fella. Not for me hanging about
with a crowd of gossiping girls, when I could be in the crowd at Castle
Donington. I consoled myself with the thought that my favourite bands
would treat me like a drinking buddy and we'd laugh at the groupies,
before turning our conversation back to Boss multi-effects pedals and
Eddie Ball strings.

But who was I kidding? As my pal Neil said, there are four reasons why
guys play rock and roll.

"Girls, girls, girls. Oh, and girls."

Fuck that, thought this girl. What about the power chords? Well they
were hitting us all right, through a huge wailing wall of Marshalls. As
The Four Horsemen led into Creeping Death, Hetfield and co parted the
sea of chart crud and lead their people towards the promised land of
Nirvana, Soundgarden and the Kerrang! channel. Hammett kicked his wah
pedal into action and the groupies ran their hands up his leg.

To my right stood Chubs, the American fellow, who'd graciously allowed
me to squeeze into the two-inch space beside his expansive aris. He was
waving his chunky arms with abandon, and even now was still sore that
I'd "pinched" his seat. Kirk was doing a solo, hitting the high notes
with a face like he had a chunk of lemon up his ass, and Chubs' arm was
in my line of vision. "Excuse me, pal" I said. "Would you mind bringing
your arm down a bit please? I can't see what the man's playing."

Chubs rounded on me. "You can't play guitar!" he rasped.

"Do you mind? I am the lead guitarist of a shit-hot girl metal band,
ALL RIGHT?" I lied. "Now MOVE YOUR FUCKING ARM!" Respectfully, Chubs
stood back.

Things were fine till the encore, when Metallica came back on. We were
all crazy fuckers, said James Hetfield, as he handed the crowd his beer
and charged into Seek and Destroy. Again, the groupies caressed Kirk's
legs. His feet were inches away from me, and I considered tying his
shoe laces together. He might career forward into the crowd and then I
could grab hold of that divine Gibson Flying V that he was playing and
make a run for it past the bouncers. Then I could start that band that
I'd told Chubs I was in.

He started waving his arms around again and trampling me underfoot, for
Metallica had finished the encore. James, Kirk and Jason were giving
out their plectra and broken guitar strings, exchanging "fuck yeah" and
"all rights" with the crowd of sweaty young men.

"HEY GUYS! I'LL SEE YOU IN ALBUQUERQUE!" yelled Chubs above the din.
God almighty, I thought. This bloke actually thinks he's mates with
Metallica!

"WOULD YOU GET THE FUCK OFF MY FEET!" I managed to choke.

"Get outta my face, girl!" he spat.

I'd had enough of his physical imperialism. "RIGHT, THAT'S IT!" I
boomed. "You know, I stick up for people like you, pal!"

"Huh? What people?" he asked.

"Americans!" I crossed the line and sank my teeth into his fleshy
arm.

"Oh my GAWD!" howled Chubs. "I GOT RABIES, I GOT RABIES!" We were at
daggers drawn when Lars Ulrich appeared from behind his drum riser to
banter with the crowd. He must have seen us arguing as he approached,
for he went straight to Chubs and wagged his finger. And I fancied that
I could make out the words

"Now don't go hassling the girls buddy, there's room for all of us.
Okay?" Chubs stood in silence, as if he was getting a tick-off from a
favourite uncle, before Lars slapped him on the shoulder in a gesture
that said I've had my say and we're still pals. See you in
Albuquerque.

Chubs said did as he was told as Kirk spotted a guy screeching his
name, threw him a lurid green plectrum and exited, stage left.