---
---
The garage wasn't soundproof, but they didn't care.
James strummed a muted riff as Lars set up a mic stand using duct tape and prayer. Ron tightened his bass strings, while Dave leaned over his pedalboard, fine-tuning his distortion to something that sounded like a warplane screaming through hell.
It was a mess — a beautiful, chaotic mess.
"This is it," Lars said, sweat on his brow despite the morning chill. "One shot. Slagel's deadline is next week. We get it done now, or we're out."
James nodded. "Let's do it."
They were about to record Hit the Lights.
---
The "studio" was just Lars's friend's house in Orange County — a living room converted into a pseudo-recording space. A few mattresses against the walls. A secondhand 4-track recorder that coughed every time they hit record. And a guy named Jeff who claimed he'd "totally recorded demos before."
Nobody believed him, but they had no better options.
"Alright," Jeff said through a mouthful of Twinkie, "guitar first, then bass, drums, and vocals."
"No drums first?" Lars asked.
Jeff shrugged. "You're not Neil Peart, man."
James plugged in his white Flying V, exhaled slowly, and hit the opening riff — fast, sharp, like a blade unsheathed. The raw energy filled the room. No click track, no safety net. Just instinct and adrenaline.
Ron followed, steady but tense. His fingers locked into the groove, barely audible in the mix, but there — anchoring it.
Lars crashed in afterward, hitting harder than the mic could handle. The first take clipped like hell.
Jeff muttered, "Yeah, we'll call that... 'punk character.'"
James rolled his eyes but let it slide.
Then came vocals.
He took a swig from a lukewarm soda, stepped to the mic, and growled into it:
"No life 'til leather — we're gonna kick some ass tonight!"
There was no sound booth, no producer, no retakes for pitch. Just his voice, raw and feral, cracking at the edges. He meant every word.
He wasn't the kid from Downey anymore. Not in that moment.
He was fronting a band that would shake the world.
---
Dave laid his solos down last.
He strutted into the room like a prizefighter, plugged in, and tore into his leads with swagger. Fast, erratic, brilliant — a razor storm of notes.
James watched through the glassless window between the rooms, arms crossed. Dave was good. Too good.
When he finished, he looked over, cocky grin on his face. "How's that for spice?"
Jeff raised a thumb. "One take."
Lars burst into laughter. "We're in!"
---
Back in the garage later that night, the four of them huddled around a cheap cassette player.
Jeff had handed them the master track with a wink and said, "Don't break the world."
They played the tape.
Rough.
Distorted.
But real.
When the song ended, the room was dead quiet.
Then Ron spoke. "It's not perfect."
Lars said, "Exactly."
Dave cracked open a beer. "Sounds like four guys with something to prove."
James sat back and let the sound linger in his head.
This was Hit the Lights. Their opening salvo.
Their war cry.
---
Two days later, Lars personally delivered the tape to Brian Slagel's office.
"Metallica?" Slagel had asked, eyeing the name scribbled on the case.
Lars just smiled. "You'll remember it."
---