by Lonn Friend
The deeper I got in league with the bands and their free-for-all lifestyles, the more I fantasized about my own false sense of celebrity and ability to enjoy some rock-’n’-roll road-sanctioned misbehavior. I deluded myself into thinking that because I was with the band, I was as cool as the band. Truth is, I was more fool than cool and never got in much trouble. The fact that I wanted to, however, illustrated how distracted I became by the temptations of the road, and that alone caused me to begin to lose touch with my wife. But I was traveling constantly and too busy to notice. The magazine was getting soul all right, while its editor was losing his.
I got the call in the fall of 1990. RIP had been offered the only exclusive, all-access print coverage of the next Metallica studio adventure. Lars had come up with the concept. He went to his supreme career overseers, QPrime Management’s Peter Mensch and Cliff Burnstein, and they signed off on the idea, knowing I would personally oversee the project. Metallica fans were so loyal, we created an entire monthly column called “Metalli-Watch” devoted to chronicling the progress of the next LP.
That first visit to North Hollywood’s One on One studios, I met the band’s new producer, Canadian protégé of the great Bruce Fairbairn, Bob Rock, the single most significant factor in the transmutation of Metallica’s sound from thrashing metal to mainstream heavy rock. The sonic muscle of Mötley Crüe’s 1989 smash Dr. Feelgood, which Rock had produced, blew Lars away. It was also the record that helped lift the Hollywood glam rockers to the next multiplatinum level, and according to Lars, Metallica was poised for the same metamorphosis.
Being this close to the operation, I began to realize that the business of Metallica at this time was very much under the eyes and edict of Lars, the five-foot-seven-inch Danish-born son of a professional tennis player. When it came down to artistic creation, however, that’s when James Hetfield emerged as the driving force of band’s musical vision. But making a record involved immense compromise and flexibility, both challenging states of being to attain when strong egos are involved.
Not being a musician myself, I wasn’t entirely hip to the technology or studio vernacular being spoken in my presence during those visits. So more than scrutinize or try to comprehend what was taking place inside the studio walls, I took in the atmosphere and reported to the best of my ability what was happening during those Black Album days.
For the February 1991 issue—seven months before the record’s formal release—I was getting song titles. “Let’s see, we’ve got one called ‘Enter Sandman,’ ” confided the drummer. “It’s about this children’s fable that if you don’t go to sleep, the sandman’s gonna come and put sand in your eyes. Then there’s one called ‘Sad but True,’ the title of which has been around for years. It’s not really political—most of the stuff on this record isn’t, unlike Justice, with its attacks on the system. ‘Shortest Straw’ was about blacklisting, and ‘Eye of the Beholder’ spoke of censorship. Most of the stuff on this record is first-person perspective, inner stuff.”
As the months passed, I popped my head in at regular intervals, rolled tape, and took notes. One evening James revealed to the world and me the “tent of doom.” “Moving the heavy blankets aside,” I wrote, “I peer at the ten Marshall amps stacked on one side, facing a half dozen small but exacting microphones. The top of the tent is open.” James went on to explain to me the secret of his undeniable sound. “Basically, this design kind of boxes in the sound,” he explained. “And gets those real chunky parts where you really feel the air moving.” It started to hit me that night how sacred this space truly was.
Jaymz (as he signed his name when giving autographs) was a complicated man. That may have been for reasons that had nothing to do with music. He was born August 3, 1963, in the dreary Southern California suburb of Downey. James not only had a comatose one-horse stucco town to drive him to his chaotic craft, but he was the child of Christian Scientists. When his mom fell gravely ill to cancer, she refused to seek medical help and passed away in the family’s home. On the day she died, James’s father made him and his siblings go to school. The courageous front man would dig deep and purge that demon on Black with the song “The God That Failed,” a ballad of pain and closure inspired by and dedicated to his late mom.
While Lars and I could talk for hours, James was a man of few words who spoke through his lyrics and unequalled mastery of the rhythm axe. This record was changing him from a wild-eyed rebellious brat bent on annihilation to one of rock’s most important figures. Here was a man who believed that without music, he would have died. In other words, he owed his life to Metallica, and conversely, they owed theirs to him.
After he showed me the tent, I asked James if he wanted to go to West Hollywood. Metallica’s old publicist, Byron Hontas, was working with an all-girl metal band called Phantom Blue, playing the Roxy. “Cool,” he said. “You drive so I can drink. Hee-hee.” As soon as the doors shut on my Mazda 626, James pulled a tape out of his pocket. “You wanna hear some shit?” he barked, that classic, playful but sinister Hetfield grin creeping to the surface.
“Fuck, yeah! Pop it in!”
A rough mix of “Holier Than Thou” cracked the night air, my first raw, reckless, uncompromising taste of Black. We listened to it five times before pulling into the Roxy parking lot. The song was urgent, brutal, in both its rapid beat and its lyrical message. The gospel according to James.
Before you judge me, take a look at you
Can’t you find something better to do?
Point the finger, slow to understand
Arrogance and ignorance go hand in hand.
Capped off by a face-melting Hammett guitar solo, it was vintage Metallica taken to a new sonic level by Bob Rock’s rich production.
On the most memorable visit of the eleven-month studio siege, the guys said they had a surprise for me. I arrived in the late afternoon and surprisingly James, Lars, Kirk, and Jason— Metallica intact—were in the house. Engineer Randy Staub came out to the lobby to fetch me. James, Lars, Kirk, Jason, Bob, and Randy surrounded me on the sofa facing the big monitors that hung above the console. “You ready for an ass puckering?” giggled James. They were all laughing until Bob gave Randy the green light. “Cue it up. And crank it!” All of sudden, I had to take a piss.
The opening notes were thunderous, rattling the studio and every molecule in my body. Then the song paused, as if it were taking a breath. As the drums cracked, the song settled into this pummeling, seductive groove. My mouth opened, my head began to move backward and forward, and every set of proud eyes was fixated on the writer reeling in the rapture.
Hey, I’m your life
I’m the one that takes you there!
I felt like I’d been swallowed by a grizzly bear.
You know it’s sad but true!
The last crushing note of the song echoed away, and I slumped there, limp, exhausted, elated. “So, Mr. RIP magazine, what the fuck do you think?” chimed Lars. I don’t remember whether I was clever, stupid, exacting, or incoherent. My instincts had told me that rock history was being made in this studio, but it wasn’t until I heard the rough mix of “Sad but True” that I was absolutely certain. Black was destined to be an album for the ages. Like Led Zeppelin IV, Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, Van Halen’s 1984, and AC/DC’s Back in Black, it defined the moment in the ride where the wheels came completely off the tracks.
The last “Metalli-Watch” segment was printed in the October 1991 issue, featuring Alice Cooper on the cover. We had a three-month press lead, so the magazine was put to bed shortly before Black hit the streets. In that final installment, I wrote, “ ‘Enter Sandman’ will startle Metallica fans. While it possesses the Metallica sound in all its monstrous glory, one thing is unbelievably evident that hasn’t been on past efforts. James Hetfield is a singer. When he keens the song’s powerful chorus, ‘Exit light, enter night!’ the Mighty H’s voice positively soars.” For the November 1990 RIP exclusive with James, I’d referred to him on the co
ver as “The Mighty Hetfield.” The label stuck, for good reason.
Lars also confessed in that final piece that Bob Rock was responsible for James’s vocal transformation from growler to singer. “Bob should be given total credit for making James feel comfortable enough to take that guard down and really sing,” he said. “We always thought of ourselves as big, bad Metallica, but Bob taught us a new word none of us had ever heard before— soulful.”
Metallica’s fifth LP, officially untitled though proclaimed and forever known as “The Black Album” (as the Beatles had their “White Album”), was unleashed in August of 1991, the same month my weekly spot “Friend at Large” debuted on MTV’s Headbangers Ball.
QPrime Management helped me christen my new boob-tube voyage by giving me an early pressing of the Metallica “Black Album” cover, which I showed to the world for the first time. My serendipitous foray from behind the desk to in front of the camera was the fallout of a fun and successful promotion between RIP and Headbangers Ball called the Megadeth Party Bus.
Like Metallica, Dave Mustaine’s second speed-metal foursome was a RIP favorite, so the idea was pitched to MTV for a special edition of the Ball. A big yellow school bus was secured, we set up a faux magazine office in the back, members of my staff, the band, and a video crew hopped on board, and we headed into West Hollywood to see what kind of trouble we could get into.
Arrangements were made for us to “accidentally” run into some heavy rockers while we were cruising around Los Angeles. At the Cat & Fiddle Pub on Sunset Boulevard, we met up with Slash and Duff from Guns N’ Roses. Jon Bon Jovi “just happened” to be in the place too. Then we headed west toward the ocean and the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, where Ted Nugent and Armored Saint were performing. The Motor City Madman took us on his bus, showing off the amenities of his customized mobile hotel—big-screen TV, velvet-bedspread-covered queen-size bunk.
The producer of the segment, Carol Donovan, was so happy with the end result, she pitched the idea to MTV talent executive John Cannelli that I might make a cool regular addition to the Ball. I came up with the tag Friend at Large and the concept that I would just talk about what was happening in hard rock music without a script, and we’d see how things developed. The initial spots were shot on a dull soundstage in Santa Monica, but the location for FAL soon changed to the actual RIP offices in Beverly Hills.
I began to take my 8-mm video camera on the road with me, gathering bits of behind-the-scenes moments with bands doing their thing. My weekly invasion into the headbanging living rooms of America was not only popular with the fans but with the music industry as well.
I rocked the Ball for two years until I was unceremoniously “unplugged” by the network in August 1993. Truth be told, I brought it on myself. My ouster was the political fallout of a scathing shot I took at the programmers of MTV in my “Friend to All” column in the powerful industry tip sheet Hits. I accused the media monolith of not playing the Masters of Reality video “She Got Me” from their Sunrise on the Sufferbus LP, because the band members were “too old.”
Two weeks after I revealed to the world the Black cover, I was winging my way to London for another Castle Donington festival. This time, I had Joyce and our fourteen-month-old daughter, Megan, in tow. This was a really exciting adventure for the Friend family. Joyce hadn’t been on a road trip with me since Meg was born, and we both loved England. Having our tiny blonde beauty with us made the journey all the more sweet.
The plan was for me to hook up with Metallica in London and fly with them for the next two gigs, Budapest and Munich, while the family remained in England for a minivacation. Megan fell asleep in my arms at the side of the Donington stage while the band played “Enter Sandman.” We were based at the Conrad London hotel with several bands, including Mötley Crüe. Nikki Sixx’s son, Gunner, a couple months younger than Meg, gave our daughter her first slobber on the lips while the kids were playing together. Talk about the fruit not falling far from the tattooed tree.
The flight to Budapest was a blast. The guys welcomed me deeper into the fold, chiding me as if I were one of the crew. Lars, however, was becoming visibly cocky on the heels of Black’s release in America. Elektra Records was predicting enormous first-week sales. He was feeling his oats in brave new ways. When we were passing through immigration in Budapest, Lars hid Kirk’s passport, which no one, especially Kirk, found too amusing. Here we were in a formerly Communist country— only months since the Wall had come down—and the millionaire rock star was fucking with the system. Tour manager Ian Jeffery did a smooth song and dance and all was soon well. I sensed that there was more going on here than just old fraternity play between band members.
Metallica was joined in Budapest by the same groups that rocked Donington: AC/DC, Mötley Crüe, Queensrche, and the Black Crowes, but it was now billed as the Open Air Festival 1991 tour. I rode to the concert grounds with James, Kirk, and Jason. Lars wanted to get to the venue early. On that ride, I was made privy to the inside joke that led to a chain of events that would strangely etch my name on the stone tablets of Metallica mythology.
“Have you heard about the white leather jacket?” giggled the Mighty Hetfield.
“Uh, no,” I responded.
“Lars bought this white leather jacket,” he explained. “Because Axl had one. He wears it out at night. It’s ridiculous.” Lars and Axl had curiously bonded when both bands jammed together on November 9, 1990, at RIP’s fourth-anniversary party
“Ask him about the jacket,” said Kirk.
“When the time is right,” James laughed.
That night, my phone rang about 2 A.M. Who in the world could be calling me at this hour? I thought. Joyce was in England, so I knew she was asleep. The Germans could bomb London again and she wouldn’t wake up. Megan was a sound sleeper too. Once out, they were gone till morning. Unlike me, who hasn’t slept more than a six-hour stretch since high school.
“Hello, Lonn?” asked the subdued voice.
“Uh, yes,” I responded, groggily
“It’s Dave Mustaine. I know it’s really late there and you’re wondering why I’m calling.” I paused for a second, grabbed my glasses off the nightstand, and composed myself. “Hi, Dave,” I replied. “What’s up, man?” For the next five minutes, I was party to my first twelve-step confessional. Dave Mustaine had battled heroin for years, and I guess he’d finally gotten clean and as part of the process of healing, he had to make contact with those he felt he’d done wrong.
Dave and Megadeth were always great to the magazine and me. When he and filmmaker Penelope Spheeris stopped by the office on their way to the Megadeth performance shoot for The Decline of Western Civilization II: The Metal Years, I gave Dave a RIP T-shirt, which he proudly donned for the awesome concert sequence. “I think I may have been an asshole to you a couple times,” he confessed. “And I want to apologize. That’s all I wanted to say. Good night, buddy.”
The next morning, I knocked on Lars’s door. He was anxiously awaiting the fax from the States with the first-week sales figures on Black. “Hey, man,” he said. “I got a weird call last night from Dave Mustaine.”
“So did I,” I replied.
We shared a kind word for a courageous metal man battling the demons back home, but no one knows but Lars how much sleep he lost over the ousting of Mustaine. Dave’s teary “sour grapes” diatribe in 2004’s revealing documentary Some Kind of Monster was one of the film’s most engaging sequences and appeared to serve as the closure the talented guitarist had long sought and prayed for.
When the fax arrived, it was time to party. Black had opened at number one. “Fuck, man!” he laughed. “We’re fucking number one! Metallica is number one! Can you fucking believe it? Listen, Lonn, I got a bunch of calls to make. I’ll see ya later, okay?” The shift was on. You could see it in his eyes. World domination was now at hand.
Whatever success the band had enjoyed through the Justice years was about to be forever dwarfed by the Black mono
lith. Metallica was soaring out of the metal underground and into the mainstream rock stratosphere. And no one was feeling more invincible than Lars. His self-image was expanding in direct proportion to Black’s unit sales and concert grosses. Ross Halfin had recently given the drummer a new nickname: “Stars” Ulrich. The next night in Munich, we suffered our first head-on ego collision.
I was sitting in the bar of the German hotel talking to Hetfield and Mötley Crüe’s Nikki Sixx, who were getting off turning the tables on me by conducting a mock interview. It was playful, by no means mean-spirited, but for some reason, my skin felt unusually thin that evening. I was walking a high wire and had no idea how far the fall was.
“Where’s Lars?” I asked.
“He’s at some club with Angus,” said James. “Ask Tony Smith. He’ll tell you. Lemme know if he’s got the jacket on … hee-hee.”
Tony was Lars’s affable, accommodating Guy Friday who always knew where his boss was at any time of the day or night. “He’s doing a bit of celebrating, Lonn,” Tony reported. “Watch yourself.” The comment soared right past me as Tony told me the name of the club.
An hour later, I walked into a dark Deutschland disco pulsing with blaring music and sexy girls. I looked around and found Lars and AC/DC guitar legend Angus Young sitting in a roped-off lounge area with one of the crew’s security gorillas standing watch. I approached the rope and waved to Lars. He looked three sheets to the Bavarian wind. Angus sipped tea (he never partied). But his abstinence wouldn’t deter cofounder of the number-one-selling rock band in America from hoisting a few.