Chapter 12 – The Jam That Changed Everything

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May 20, 1982 – Ron McGovney's Garage, Downey, California

The garage was already roasting by noon. Lars was setting up his drums, sweat dripping from his forehead as he fumbled with a hi-hat clamp. Dave leaned in a corner, slowly stringing his guitar while sipping warm beer. James sat on a torn stool, strumming idle riffs on his Flying V, lost in thought.

Ron McGovney looked distracted. Tired. Maybe even annoyed.

He could feel something shifting, and he didn't like it.

Then the door creaked open.

In walked Cliff Burton — long red hair down to his shoulders, Rickenbacker bass in one hand, a wah pedal tucked under his arm.

No one spoke at first.

Then James stood up. "You came."

Cliff nodded. "Told you I would."

He glanced around the space: posters peeling off the walls, cables in tangled loops, a scent of beer, sweat, and tape residue. A real garage band home.

"You got an amp?"

"Ron's got a spare," Lars said quickly, shooting Ron a look.

Ron hesitated, then silently pointed to a dusty cabinet in the corner.

Cliff set up without a word. Dialed in his tone. Plugged in the pedal. When he finally turned toward the others, his bass hummed with life — heavy, full, and alive with grit.

Lars sat behind the kit, raising his sticks. "Wanna start with No Remorse?"

"Sure," James said.

Cliff just nodded, fingers poised.

Lars counted them in. "One, two, three, four—"

And then it hit.

No Remorse came to life in a way it never had before. Cliff didn't just follow the riff — he built around it. His basslines twisted and climbed, snarling through the midrange, then dropped into thunder when the chorus hit. The wah pedal sang during the solo. He didn't step on toes — he elevated everything.

James felt it. Dave did too — he nearly stumbled on his own lead.

When they ended the song, the room was quiet.

Even Ron was speechless.

James blinked. "That… didn't sound like us."

Lars cracked a grin. "It sounded like us with fangs."

Dave pointed his beer at Cliff. "You're a freak, man. I like it."

Cliff gave a half-shrug. "It's just music. You either feel it or you fake it."

Ron sat down heavily on a stool, arms crossed.

James turned to him. "Ron… you good?"

Ron didn't answer.

Lars stepped in. "Look — you've held it down. From the start. But if we're serious about where this is going…"

Ron stood up. "You don't have to say it."

There was a pause.

"I was already thinking of stepping back," Ron added. "I got other stuff going on. You guys… you want to live in a van and chase shows. That ain't me."

James opened his mouth to protest — but then he closed it.

Because Ron was right.

He'd done his part. But the band was changing — fast.

Cliff unplugged, respectful. "No hard feelings?"

Ron shook his head. "Not from me."

He offered Cliff a handshake. Cliff took it without hesitation.

"Keep it loud," Ron said with a smirk. "And try not to die in a ditch."

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Later That Night

The band — now Lars, James, Dave, and Cliff — sat in a booth at a grimy taco joint, half-eaten plates between them.

"I still can't believe it," Lars said. "Like… we actually sound like a real band now."

Cliff sipped his soda. "You sounded like a real band before. You just didn't have teeth."

James leaned back, already thinking about new songs.

With Cliff on bass, the possibilities had cracked wide open.

"I've got a riff," he said. "Been messing with it since last week. Might call it Whiplash."

Cliff raised an eyebrow. "Sounds painful."

"Good," James said. "It's supposed to be."

They all laughed.

And just like that, Metallica became something else.

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