178. Metallica
O2 Arena
22 October 2017
There comes a point in every band’s life when self-parody can stop being a risk and becomes the business model. For Metallica, that point arrived somewhere around the first flamethrower of the night. The O₂ Arena was heaving, a pilgrimage of leather, denim, and midlife crisis. A sea of dads in faded Ride the Lightning shirts clutching £9 pints, all pretending they weren’t about to cry when “Enter Sandman” arrived. I wanted to love it. I really did. However, within twenty minutes, I realised we’d stumbled into the world’s most expensive Spinal Tap reboot.
They hit the stage with all the subtlety of a Viking invasion: lights, fire, drums, and James Hetfield bellowing “YEAH!”. Lars Ulrich, bless him, continues to drum like he’s fighting off an invisible wasp, while Rob Trujillo shredded furiously, bass slung so low that his knuckles dragged the stage floor, wearing the expression of someone trying to remember if they left the iron on.
The production was, in fairness, impressive. A small nation’s GDP in lights and pyro. At one point, a huge faux–Vegas strip appeared on the screens hung above the stage, neon signs flashing in computer generated glory. For one glorious, unforgettable second, a pink neon arrow lit up, pointing at the three prancing frontmen, emblazoned with the words: “COCK SHOW.” It was, unintentionally, the most accurate piece of stage design I have ever seen.
Four men in their fifties gyrating like Thunderbirds puppets, trying to remind us that metal still has a pulse, but accidentally proving that it is mostly a midlife libido.
The songs, of course, are unimpeachable. “For Whom the Bell Tolls”, “Master of Puppets”, “One”, titanic, world-crushing, eternal and very silly. Between them came rambling speeches and a moment where Hetfield declared, “We’re all connected!” which would’ve landed better if he wasn’t standing in front of a literal wall of fire.
By the halfway mark, my friend and I were just exhausted by the whole thing, we were not, as Hetfield has intoned, connected to this in the slightest. Another barrage of drum fills, another light show that needed a migraine warning, another volley of hip thrusts that were about as sexy as a Ford Transit doing donuts in a car park. We were done. We slipped out somewhere around “Seek & Destroy”, stepping over a field of air-guitaring men who hadn’t left their teenage bedrooms since 1988.
Outside, the night was calm, the air mercifully free of pyro and galactic sized egos. We retreated to our friend’s cocktail bar, The Cocktail Trading Company in Shoreditch. Inside the arena, no doubt, the cock show raged on.