BY SAM BETTY 
 
  Wednesday, October 12th was supposed to be like any other Wednesday. As a student teacher at a local elementary school in Santa Rosa, California, most of my mornings are spent gearing up for a day of times tables, word problems, spelling, and cursive (yes, it’s still a thing). I put on my collared shirt and finely pressed khakis, drink my coffee, and ride off to work at around 7 am. 
 
  6:57 am. New email alert comes through, subject line “Metallica Music Video.” I put my briefcase down, loosen my tie, and take a deep breath. I had signed up for this opportunity and hadn’t heard back. 
 
  “Hi, it’s late notice but if you can make the shoot today please let me know ASAP.” 
 
  It is my firmly held belief that every adult human being has a few hypothetical scenarios that absolve them of any responsibility or agenda. Because we all have them, there is a mutual understanding that once they arise the parties left wanting by your inevitable absence will feel no ill will or contempt for you abandoning your responsibility. It’s the big red emergency button in our lives that we can press at any time, and it is universal. In rare instances, these dramatic and spontaneous readjustments to our lives are due to something spectacular. Well, my big red button is black and it has a big-ass \m/ in the middle of it. It’s the Metallica button for my life and from time to time it gets pressed. For example, when my buddy Patrick invited me as his +1 to be on stage with Metallica in Austin 24 hours before their X-Games concert, I simply told my wonderful girlfriend at the time (now fiancée) that I had a “Metallica thing in Austin.” Fist smash the \m/ button. When I heard that there was a loser line for night 3 of the 30th Anniversary shows at the Fillmore in San Francisco: smack the \m/ button. 
 
  Pause. Deep breath. This can’t be real. Read it again. 
 
  “Hi, it’s late notice but if you can make the shoot today please let me know ASAP.” 
 
  Shock, stunned silence, blank stare… 
 
  FIST PUNCH THE \m/ button!! 
 
  I call my mentor teacher and politely explain the magnitude of the situation. Work is covered and I can make up the hours. Next, the fiancée: 
 
  “Babe, I got a Metallica thing tonight. Be home late. Love you. \m/.” 
 
  I leave at noon, blast the Ride the Lightning remasters, and arrive at 2 pm at the old 16th Street Station in West Oakland. We were told to be there at 4 o’clock, but we all know that’s not the way it works with Metallica fans. The venue is a retired train station that opened in 1912. It’s built in a regal neo-classical beaux-arts style with high arched windows and flat roof. It is, however, slightly dilapidated. The surrounding area is a collection of old industrial warehouses, some in use, some abandoned. Train tracks and a freeway overlook the area, and Soundwave Studios is a few blocks away. Those who have jammed there probably know that Metallica, The Cure, Green Day, and countless others have graced their rehearsal rooms. It’s also the home of the mighty “Testament Room.” 
 
  The line outside is about what you’d expect; men and women from all over have traveled for this unique opportunity. One guy from Toronto is the first person in line. He looks like he could be in a tribute band. He fits the part and has that Hetfield vibe. The rest is a diverse community of men and women wearing black on black on black; most are Metallica veterans. For several hours we huddle together outside the gate to the station and share the depth of our Metallica identity. Together we talk about our greatest Metallica moments: the number of shows, the best shows, and we speculate about the new album and the possibilities that this random Wednesday in October might bring. Questions abound! Will we meet the band? Which song will they film? Will it be a thrasher or a ballad? Will all the friends who think I lied to them when I told them I was going to be in a Metallica video see my big-ass face on YouTube next to James, Lars, Rob, and Kirk? 
 
  One clubber notes, 
 
  “If you told me when I was 16 that I would one day be in a Metallica music video I would have laughed in your face…and then punched that face.”  
 
  A few hours pass and the impatience grows. Just in time, a person that we collectively deem to be important approaches. She looks official and she’s carrying clipboards and a pen. I would later learn that her name is Addie. Addie and I would have an interesting night. Addie is the best. 
 
  Oooyeaahhh! Here we go! Yes! Let’s do this! 
 
  “All right. You guys excited?!” 
 
  “Yeah!” (horns in the air) 
 
  “Okay, so I have some paperwork for you guys to fill out. Please read over it carefully, sign it, and give it back to me. If I don’t have these signed forms you will not be allowed inside the shoot. The first is a non-disclosure agreement, the second asks for some personal information. The non-disclosure agreement essentially states that…” 
 
  Damnit, Addie! Now just imagine, if you can, a group of 75 rabid Metallica fans ready to rumble having to carefully read over the fine print of a contract 50 yards away from their favorite band in the world. 
 
  I don’t actually read the paperwork that we’ve been given to sign; my main concern is getting into the venue as quickly as possible. The rumor is that our mortal souls will be fed to his greatness, Ktulu (or Chthulu for you Lovecraft purists), if we say ANYTHING about the song or video before Metallica releases them. The secrecy portion of this experience is emphasized over and over again. We’ve been explicitly told that no cell phones will be allowed, pictures and social posts about the experience are strictly prohibited, and under no circumstances are we permitted to share any information about the new song. This is all fine with everyone in line—just let us into the venue!!! 
 
  About 10 other clubbers and I finish our paperwork first and are quickly gathered together by a designated Metallica employee. The directors come out and tell us that there are a few “active” roles that need to be filled. They detail what those of us who are selected will be responsible for. In the meantime, they explain the concept of the video. 
 
  “Okay, this video shoot will be split up into two separate shoots. The first shoot will feature a street-fighting scene. All of the club members will be gathered in a circle, forming a ring. During the actual street fighting we will choreograph the fighters to be knocked directly into your arms, either to be pushed back into the ring or to be lowered to the ground and dragged out of the circle. Now, who wants to help?” 
 
  Like 3rd graders being asked who wants to help the teacher pass out papers, hands shoot up in an instant. All but one, that is—he must have been the coolest kid in school for sure. This large orange haired Viking-esque fellow simply flexes his impressive right arm, where a full-sleeve of Metallica albums blazes out from his skin. He is chosen first. I assume the image of that awesome tattoo draped over and dragging the fighter out of the ring is attractive to them. Accompanying him are a Metallica cover band guy and a couple of Metalli-ladies decked out in big black boots, chains, and other awesome metal gear. I get passed over, but not without good reason. I am 6’7”, rail thin, and am always reduced to a giggling buffoon whenever I’m around Metallica. What’s more, I’ve just moved into a new home and the only unpacked Metallica shirt I have is from Target! What shame! So I try to make up for it by looking intimidating; seriously, I did. Though momentarily disheartened, I am still in with the first group and hopeful that perhaps my hilarious face will show up in glorious HD in a Metallica music video. 
 
  ENTER VENUE 
 
  We are led through the big doorway and time starts to slow down. Each step I take, my brain processes more and more of the scene around me. A row of awe-inspiring guitars stand to my right along with another row of battle-axe-sized basses. These breathtaking weapons of metal mayhem are legendary. The blood and sweat of the greatest metal warriors has dropped on these broadswords of sound. Another step and I begin to take in the venue itself. The interior shows its scars; the high walls and ceilings are cracked, torn, and the windowpanes are rusted. Any mosaics that once embellished their walls have long ago worn away. It is a haunting place, like stepping into an old abandoned church. The vast main room evokes a sense of majesty and dread. I see why Metallica chose it; it is a perfect complement to their music, style, and attitude. 
 
  My moment of hypnosis now over, the others and I are ushered in and arranged in a circle with a diameter of about 20 feet. For a moment we all just look at each other. Most of us have smiles on our faces that can only be described as child-like and slightly ridiculous. When we’re all gathered together, the director comes in and gives us directions: 
 
  “Okay, so this first scene we’re going to shoot is the street-fighting scene. Your role as the crowd is to be loud and rabid. You will essentially be cheering on the fighters. We’re going to get a lot of crowd shots, so react as you would naturally react to watching a fight, and keep the energy high. After this scene we’ll take a break and the band will come into the circle and perform. Any questions?” 
 
   
 
  Though we’re eager to hear the new song and see our beloved Metallica, we’re told that the first scene will also be without music. We’ll have to be patient a little while longer. It’s 7 pm, and what follows is a carefully choreographed fight sequence. Lead actress Jana Knauerova expertly dispatches each foe. The aggressive moves, punches, and kicks are performed at about half speed live and sped up in the final production. My fellow Metallica brothers perform their parts well. My Viking friend is instructed to wrap his stunning right arm around the protagonist after she stumbles backward. He does so perfectly. The girl in front of me drags a humbled opponent out of the ring with ease. I stay crouched and urge the fighters to continue to brawl. When our heroine is taken down near my position, I erupt with a “No, no, no! Get up! Let’s go! C’mon!” 
 
  Take after take, shot after shot and the crowd still keeps up their end of the deal. We yell, fist pump, snarl, and exhort the fighters to give us more. We are bloodthirsty in our eagerness to make this video great, to be participants in a small piece of Metallica lore, and to show the world that we are the best fans in the world. 
 
  A couple of hours pass and the first shoot is over. We are thirsty for Metallica. But we are also… thirsty! It’s about 9pm and not one of these raging Metallica fans has had any water or food, and we still have a few hours left of shooting. People need a recharge, and food or not, we certainly need some hydration. A Metallica representative approaches after a few minutes with spectacular news: 
 
  “All right! Who’s hungry? We’re going to be getting you guys pizzas. You and Addie need to go pick them up. We’ll call in the order. Twenty pizzas, yeah?” 
 
  To say the least, this announcement goes over well with the Met Club. Twenty minutes later Addie and I hop in a car, drive off the lot, and are off on our pizza adventure. Time is short, so we drive to Oakland, run into Safeway, and snag a few crates of water and some soda. Addie is my new Metallica hero. She is loyal and works hard for the band; she talks about what it’s like being at HQ, the adorable nature of the resident Metallicats, and about her life in general. Henceforth let her be known as Met Club Addie. 
 
  We pick up the pizzas, stack them into the back of her car, and return to a hero’s welcome bearing gifts of sustenance. A renewed energy floods the hallway as all 20 pizzas and several crates of water are demolished in minutes. In true Met Club fashion, a few members walk over to the hard-working security guards and offer them slices and bottles of water. They are grateful, and I think for a moment how Metallica fans have had such a bad reputation over the years. But when it comes right down to it they look after one another. It’s a family. 
 
  “All right everybody, let’s start making our way back to the main hall.” 
 
  We all line up and return to our spots in the circle. We are trembling with anticipation. The moment has finally arrived. 
 
  ENTER THE BAND. 
 
  Robert, Kirk, Lars, and James don’t really walk into a room. By my estimation they float, but like a floating thunder cloud their entrance can only be described as electric. We roar as they make their way to the ring. James throws his fists in the air and goes around the circle giving everyone fist bumps. They engage us in some banter, pump us up, and chat with a few of us as we bathe in this glorious moment. We are no longer outside the social circle of our heroes; we quite literally are the circle. 
 
  They are handed their perfectly polished guitars. James toys with a titanium-plated Snakebyte guitar, sharp as a razor; Kirk paws at a classic flying V, black as night; Rob clutches his Warwick Rob Trujillo Signature bass; Lars pats his feet delicately on the pedals of flawless purple Tama kit. No instruction is needed for the next part. No one needs to tell us to be pumped up, to give energy, to raise horns in the air, or to celebrate this moment. The hum from the PA system gives to way to several bleeps. The countdown begins. 
 
  ROLL THE TAPE! 
 
   
 
  The first notes blast our ears with ferocity and purpose. All instruments come together in their distorted majesty for the kind of powerful, elaborate intro we’ve come to expect as Metallica fans. It is loud—and it is awesome. Power chords give way to soaring guitar harmonies; snares roll and the tension builds. Just as they reach their apex, the guitar harmonies descend the scale and metamorphose into an ethereal clean picking, reminiscent of the ballads “Fade to Black,” “Welcome Home (Sanitarium),” and “The Day that Never Comes.” It dawns on me that we are the first people in the world other than Metallica’s closest circle to hear these notes. James’ voice enters and I lose myself in his words. I hang on to each one, letting their meaning melt into me. 
 
  Obey, obey
  Come won’t you stay?
  Sincere, sincere
  All ends in tears…
  Endure, endure
  Thoughts most impure
  Concede, concede
  But both shall we bleed…. 
 
  The final soft word of the verse reaches a crescendo, the sweet raspy vocals transform into something wild and unhinged, and the chorus emerges as ferociously as the song started; it is a reprisal of the intro followed by a variation. The power of the notes fuels the crowd. 
 
  Oh, Halo on fire
  The midnight knows it well
  Fast is desire
  Creates another hell
  I fear to turn on the light
  For the darkness won't go away
  Fast is desire
  Turn out the light
  Halo on fire 
 
  The distorted guitar harmonies again descend into velvety clean tones. The words of the second verse are desperate and somber. I lose myself in them again. 
 
  Allure, allure
  Sweetness obscure
  Abide, abide
  Secrets inside
  Deprive, deprive
  To feel so alive
  Obey, obey
  Just don't turn away 
 
  The roar of the chorus returns and we fans are not fooled. We sing along and blast out the final “Halo on Fire” together with the band, all with fists raised. I am certain that this moment was written for precisely this type of reaction and I am reminded of Metallica’s brilliance—of their ability to inject a catchy and accessible hook into a song that is uncompromisingly sincere, original, and muscular. 
 
  The final chorus gives way to a classic mid-song Metallica breakdown; a new vocal line follows. This epic tale of a tormented soul confronting its demons rises to an even higher level in Kirk’s blistering solo. I follow his fingers as he pantomimes the solo with all the style and energy of a live performance. James’ final words are powerful. Unlike the song’s cousin, “Fade to Black,” the song’s concluding lyrics are sung triumphantly, with an eye toward survival. 
 
  Hello Darkness, Say Goodbye 
 
  The double bass kicks in with the solo as it gallops home. The energy builds and builds until at last it is released with powerful chords in a sonic landscape of empty space. We raise our fists in the air and yell at the top of our lungs. The song ends, the crowd roars, and we are all gripped by the rapture of profound euphoria. 
 
  “All right, nice work! Take five everybody.” 
 
   
 
  The band exits the circle, leaving us to bask in the afterglow of their awesomeness. For about a minute we stand in our circle in the middle of this grand hall. There is silence, and for several moments we are almost stupefied, our heroes hanging out just 15 feet from us. 
 
  Screw this. I’m going to go talk to them. 
 
  Rob hangs and chats with his buddy Jeff, who I could talk to about music for hours. He’s a really cool guy. Rob stretches his fingers forward and backward, getting them loosened up. 
 
  “Hey Rob, the bass sounds awesome (It really does, doesn’t it?). There’s a growl to your tone that I just love.” 
 
  Without hesitation Rob looks at me, smiles, gets me in a handshake and pulls me in for a bro hug. 
 
  “Thanks, man! I’m so glad to hear that! Yeah, well Greg really did an awesome job making the whole thing sound great.” 
 
  “Yeah, it really is sonically awesome. The dynamics are superb. I can hear everything clearly.” 
 
  “Yeah, we approached things differently this time around. I’m really happy with it.” 
 
  We talk for a minute or so more. Rob comes across as a man without much ego. He’s generous with his time, looks you in the eye when he talks to you, and is genuinely interested in what you have to say. He’s a class act all the way around. 
 
  The subsequent breaks bring similar opportunities. 
 
  “Kirk, I love that song, and your solo is really cool. “ 
 
  “Thanks man. Yeah, this one somehow reminds me of The Scorpions. “ 
 
  He shakes my hand. Around me clubbers are scattered and enjoying the space, gazing at the amazing guitars, getting a closer look at Lars’ drum kit, and talking with their rock star heroes. James and Lars make the rounds, chatting with clubbers and talking shop. 
 
   
 
  The next hour and a half brings on a half-dozen takes, each one more of a celebration than the last. At one point James abandons his post as front man and jumps in with the crowd during the breakdown portion of the song. Like a kid in the crowd at his favorite band’s concert, he centers himself within a cluster of clubbers, wraps his arms around their shoulders, and jumps up and down. It’s a beautiful moment that can be seen at 6:45 and again at 7:29 into the video. It’s hidden, but it’s there. It would prove to be the final take. 
 
  11:30 pm and I am wiped out. 
 
  The lead-up and first set of shoots haven’t allowed the moment to sink in, so between one of the shoots I sit on the marble staircase and quietly take in the scene around me. I reflect on how lucky I am to be here, to be so near my musical heroes and also to be in a position to help them reach the masses with their music. A six-year-old boy with a mohawk chats with James. I’m not sure he knows why he likes Metallica yet, but he does; he wears the Metallica shirt and by the end of the night he will have scored a couple of drumsticks. Two months later I will see him at the Fox Theater in Oakland on his dad’s shoulders. 
 
  The band and crew thank us and we all come together to take a photo. I stand right behind Kirk and throw up devil horns for good measure. As we disperse, the guys do their best to give a fist bump, high five, or hug to their fans. They know we could talk to them for hours, give them our personal stories of how their music saved our lives, guided us through tough times, or just made us happy; they’ve willingly shouldered our burdens in meet and greets and sucked in our emotion as we stood in the crowd. Here they’ve made themselves accessible, talked with us, and given us a moment we will never forget. They exit gracefully, a horde of awestruck Metallica fans behind them. 
 
  Time to go home. I say my goodbyes to Addie, Jeff, and a few of my Met Club friends. We say we’ll see each other on the road. Of course we will. That’s what we do. We go to Metallica shows. I hop in the car for my hour-and-a-half drive back home. I turn on the phone, connect it to Bluetooth, and set the speakers to full. 
 
  Which song, which song… “Hardwired,” I think. Repeat? Yes, please. 
 
  Thanks to my brother Louie Betty for editing this (and for playing the solo from “One” 20 years ago and setting me on this course).