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March 14, 1982 – Radio City, Anaheim, California
James tightened the strap on his guitar and took a long breath. Behind the thin curtain of the small club stage, he could hear the muffled chatter of maybe fifty people. To him, it sounded like a stadium.
Dave was pacing like a lion. Lars was cracking his knuckles, twitchy with adrenaline. Ron stood calm as ever, checking his bass cable for the fifth time.
"You good?" Ron asked.
James didn't answer. He stared at the ground. This wasn't just a first show. It was a checkpoint. In his past life, he'd read stories about this night, about this tiny gig with almost no crowd — Metallica's first ever live performance.
But now he was here.
Living it.
And it wasn't a legend yet — just nerves and cigarette smoke.
Lars peeked through the curtain. "There's a few punks out there. Some kids with denim vests. That dude from Y&T is here too."
Dave raised an eyebrow. "Serious?"
Lars nodded. "And one guy from a record store said he drove in from San Diego just to see if we're the real deal."
James tightened his grip on the Flying V. "Then let's give him something."
They'd been rehearsing in Ron's garage for months. They had five originals and a couple covers ready. This was their shot to turn from tape-trade myth into a real band.
"Alright," the club manager barked, "you're on in two!"
Lars grabbed his sticks. "Metallica, baby. First blood."
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The lights were dim, the stage barely raised. No smoke machines, no pyrotechnics — just amps buzzing and bodies packed tight to the walls.
James stepped forward to the mic.
He looked out. Maybe 30, maybe 40 people. A few heads banged. One kid up front was already wearing a bootleg Metallica patch sewn onto his vest.
He strummed the intro to Hit the Lights.
No intro speech. No pleasantries.
Just:
"No life 'til leather…"
The crowd exploded.
Lars came in like a madman, too fast but furious. Ron's bass thumped behind it all, hidden but essential. Dave's solos screamed like sirens, wild and barely under control. James's voice cracked here and there, but the aggression made up for it.
Every song bled into the next. The Mechanix, Jump in the Fire, Motorbreath, and a searing cover of Blitzkrieg that made one old headbanger in the back spill his beer mid-headbang.
People didn't just like it — they felt it.
James shouted between songs. "We are METALLICA! And this is how it starts!"
---
After the set, drenched in sweat, the four of them collapsed backstage.
"That felt insane," Lars wheezed, his hair plastered to his forehead.
"I messed up that second verse," James said, wiping his face. "Did anyone care?"
Ron chuckled. "Nah. Kid in the front row was losing his mind the whole time."
Dave leaned back on a crate. "That was the first time I felt like a band. Not just guys playing. But something real."
They all nodded.
James looked down at his hands — blistered, bleeding, buzzing.
In another timeline, this moment had passed without fanfare. Just a tiny footnote in history.
But now, something had shifted.
He didn't know if the future would be the same. But the path had been set.
Metallica had played live.
And the world, however small a part of it, had heard.
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Later that night, back at Lars's place, they sat on the carpet with cheap beer and ringing ears.
Lars pulled out a notebook. "We need more gigs. I'm gonna call every club from here to San Francisco."
Ron nodded. "I know a guy in Berkeley. Might get us a slot."
Dave tapped his guitar case. "Let's get tighter. Faster. Meaner."
James didn't say anything.
He stared out the window at the orange streetlight bleeding through the blinds.
This was it.
The real beginning.
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