Chapter 14 – The Call of the Bay

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July 1982 – San Francisco Bay Area

Something was changing in the Bay.

Every dive bar, record store, and college radio station was buzzing with the same name: Metallica.

No radio airplay. No label. No manager.

Just tapes, flyers, and word of mouth.

And that demo — No Life 'Til Leather — was duplicating like a virus, passed hand to hand, dubbed from tape to tape. Each generation sounding a little worse, but nobody cared. It was raw. It was real. It was them.

The band had returned to San Francisco — this time not as visitors. They were making it home.

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James's New Apartment – Daly City

James sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by papers. Lyrics, flyers, and scraps with half-written song titles:

Whiplash

Jump in the Fire

Motorbreath

Fight Fire with Fire? — "Maybe later," he muttered.

Lars barged in holding a wrinkled envelope.

"Dude. Two more letters from tape traders. One from Montreal, the other Italy. We're going international!"

James grinned. "They're sending blank tapes and cash again?"

"Hell yeah. We're gonna run out of dubbing decks."

Just then, Cliff walked in with a bag of food, the scent of garlic fries following him. "People keep stopping me in Berkeley. Asking if we're gonna tour."

James raised an eyebrow. "Tour? We've played like… four real gigs."

Cliff shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Something's building."

Lars nodded. "We're the spark, man. This scene? It's dry wood."

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The Mabuhay Gardens – San Francisco

Metallica stood backstage watching another band play. Fast, sloppy punk. Decent crowd. But no one moved.

Lars leaned into Cliff. "No offense, but these guys couldn't crush a paper cup."

Cliff adjusted his strap. "They don't mean it."

James cracked his knuckles. "Let's show 'em what it sounds like when we do."

That night, when Metallica took the stage, the room flipped.

They opened with Jump in the Fire — unrecorded, unheard, completely fresh.

By the time Phantom Lord hit the halfway mark, the pit was chaos. Leather jackets, combat boots, slamming bodies. No rules, no pause.

Some called it thrash. Others didn't know what to call it. But they felt it.

They ended the set with Whiplash — and people screamed for more.

The Bay had answered.

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Later That Week – Tower Records, San Francisco

A clerk with long blond hair and a Slayer patch on his jacket tossed a demo tape on the counter.

"These guys are the band now," he said.

The customer — a college kid — picked it up. "Metallica?"

"Fastest thing I've heard. My neck still hurts from last weekend."

Behind him, two teens in line whispered.

"Didn't Cliff used to play in Trauma?"

"Yeah. He left to join these guys."

"Smart move."

In every corner of the Bay, the message was spreading.

This wasn't a trend. It wasn't a phase.

Metallica had lit the fuse.

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