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The newspaper crinkled loudly in the quiet living room as James sat on the worn-out couch, knees pulled up, and eyes scanning every tiny classified ad under the "Musicians Wanted" section.
It was July 1981. The world didn't know what it needed yet—but he did.
"Drummer needed — Classic rock covers, Age 18+, experience preferred."
"Bassist available — Jazz/Blues background."
"Keyboardist looking for progressive band — influences: Rush, Yes."
James sighed and tossed the page aside. No. No. Definitely not.
None of these ads screamed "metal." None of them hinted at that raw, unrefined fury boiling in his chest. Everyone wanted to cover someone else's music. Nobody wanted to invent something.
He flipped to the next page.
"Lead guitarist looking for fast, heavy players — not into soft crap. Call Lars, 555–2317."
James froze.
He read it again.
The name hit him like a jolt of caffeine.
Lars.
The pieces clicked instantly in his head. The timing. The location. The name. It has to be him.
A grin crept across his face. The Lars Ulrich. Or… the future Lars Ulrich. Still just some stubborn Danish kid obsessed with the New Wave of British Heavy Metal, still trying to find people to play with.
James reached for the phone… then paused.
Not yet.
Something inside him—maybe instinct, maybe fate—told him this wasn't the moment. He still needed more. A vision. A mission. A band.
He circled the ad in red pen.
Soon.
---
He got up and wandered back into his room. Posters of Thin Lizzy, UFO, and Motorhead stared down at him from the walls. He caught his reflection in the dusty mirror.
It still hit him weird every time. That's James Hetfield. His eyes. His hair. His voice. But the soul inside wasn't the same.
He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the notebook he'd started the night before. A few messy song ideas filled the first couple pages—riffs, rhythms, even some scattered lyrics.
> "No life till leather
We're gonna kick some ass tonight..."
He tapped his pen on the page, thinking. The old timeline said James and Lars would meet soon, bond over shared tapes of Diamond Head and Saxon, and form something raw that the world had never seen.
But now?
He could aim higher. He could move faster.
The world wasn't ready for Metallica.
But he was.
---
Later that evening, he met up with Ron McGovney in the garage. No band name yet. No drummer. No real songs.
Just fire.
They played through Hit the Lights again, tighter this time. Ron had tweaked the bassline, and it started to lock in with the riff.
"You got a second track?" Ron asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
James pulled out his notebook and flipped to a new page. "Sort of. Still needs work."
He started playing the intro riff to what would one day become No Remorse. Fast, surgical, chugging.
Ron grinned. "You're not messing around."
"Nope."
They broke for water, and James couldn't help but bring it up.
"I found a drummer ad in the paper today. Guy's name is Lars."
Ron blinked. "Lars? That's… different."
James kept his tone casual. "Might check him out. Later."
Ron nodded. "Who knows. Maybe he's the one."
James looked out at the street, the sun dipping low over the rooftops. In his mind, he heard the double-bass pounding, the crash of cymbals, the scream of a crowd.
He grinned to himself.
Soon, I will recreate Metallica
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