Chapter 19 – The Tapes That Burn

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October 1982 – San Francisco

They didn't have a label.

They didn't have a manager.

But what they had was fire — and No Life 'Til Leather was the torch.

The demo had escaped.

First, it was a few dubbed copies passed out at shows. Then those copies made copies. And those copies made copies. Within weeks, it was winding its way through tape-trading networks like gasoline across dry leaves.

James walked into a record store in the Mission District and froze.

There it was — behind the counter — a handwritten sign that read:

"Metallica – No Life 'Til Leather. Ask to listen."

He didn't even say anything. Just watched as a pimply teenager with a denim vest and a Slayer back patch asked the clerk for it.

The kid put on the headphones. Within seconds, his face lit up like he'd just found God in a distortion pedal.

James smirked. It's working.

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Lars' Apartment – That Night

The band crammed around Lars' coffee table, cracked beers in hand, listening to messages on his answering machine. Another club. Another small zine. Another radio show.

Cliff crossed his arms. "We're not even trying to push it, and people are calling."

Lars grinned. "Exactly! This is organic! Real buzz. Not industry plants or sleazy managers."

Dave leaned forward. "We need to play more shows. Tour. Hit LA again."

James nodded, rubbing his hands together. "We get back onstage, keep dropping these songs, and let the tape do the rest."

Lars raised his beer. "To No Life 'Til Leather. The bootleg that refuses to die."

They all drank.

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Troubadour – Los Angeles

The gig was Lars' idea — a return to LA to capitalize on the tape's momentum.

They weren't headlining. Not yet. But by the time they were done, no one remembered the band that followed.

James, clad in ripped jeans and sweat, screamed his lungs out. Lars was a blur of sticks and fury. Cliff's bass solo stunned the glam kids into silence.

And Dave... Dave burned. His solos were volcanic, barely contained.

Backstage, the promoter handed Lars an envelope of crumpled bills and said, "You guys aren't opening next time."

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After the Show – Parking Lot

The band stood by the van, high on adrenaline and cheap beer. Fans came by one after another, asking for tapes, autographs, even guitar picks.

One guy handed James a cassette.

"Dude, this is a dub of your dub. From New Jersey," he grinned. "You guys are spreading like disease, man. Metal disease."

James laughed. "Good. Let it rot the world clean."

Dave came over, shirtless and wild-eyed. "You see the way they looked at us? Like we were gods."

Cliff didn't respond. Just pulled James aside after Dave wandered off.

"You hear how he said that?" Cliff asked.

"Like what?"

"Like he was the god."

James sighed. "Yeah."

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Tape-Trader's Room – New Jersey

A teenager named Ron held a boombox up to the wall, nodding violently as the tape blasted. He didn't know much about this band Metallica, but he already had five people on his list who wanted dubs.

He picked up a pen and labeled the next blank cassette:

"No Life 'Til Leather – S.F. Speedcore"

Another fuse lit.

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