Sometimes stuff happens. Things go weird, even smack-dab in the smiliest of sublime times. The week in Zihuantenejo was one of those incredible, pinch-myself extended moments of beauty that I fully relaxed into, even as a couple of things went sideways. On Dennis’s birthday, I had food poisoning (oh, down-the-beach café ceviche, I suspect you) and spent the day prone on a chaise longue and despite the ocean lulling and the sun warming, it was no bueno to feel bleh. (Next day was fine: mind at ease post negative covid test and stomach settled so we could have his birthday dinner on a beautiful terrace facing the ocean a night late.) At the airport on the way home, Dennis’s phone disappeared from his person. We watched it leave the airport and make its way back into town through the magic of Find-My-Phone, at which point Dennis turned it into an enchanted brick for no one’s pleasure. On landing, my bag failed to come down the carousel. It had gotten onto the plane with all the other luggage, according to the tracking wizards, it just didn’t seem to want to come off. A couple of days later, back in Redlands, Dennis has a new device and my luggage agreed to come home. While “It could have been worse” was for sure a thing, as those particular moments were happening, they still sucked.

So this week from the Memory Box I pull a story of a seemingly enchanted situation spiked with an emotional dip.

Metallica love their fans. Of all the bands I’ve worked with/interviewed, they are hands-down the most present and available for the people who adore them. Being present and available almost always involved contests. When I headed up the video promotion department at their label in the mid-ish 90s, there were a couple of moments in cahoots with MTV that were pretty special. One, the Live Shit: Binge & Purge Contest, happened in 1994. The deal was that one winner and a friend would be flown to San Francisco to play music with the band at then-bassist, Jason Newsted’s, house on the bay, then end the day at a restaurant making merry with the band and all like that. All of it filmed and trimmed for a half-hour special to be broadcast on Headbanger’s Ball*. The show’s host Ricki Rachtman would be the day’s ringmaster.

BJ Simpson from Cincinnati, Ohio, won. He brought his friend PJ. Yes, BJ and PJ. Frolicking with the rock gods. I’d come to live for the moment during these contests when the winners met the band or artist. I’d get all ooky and fizzly in the hours before being nervous that it would all go okay while thinking how lives would be changed. It was rarely that dramatic outwardly, but every time I hoped it would be. And hands down, there was always more emotion than when an industry event happened and all the music-biz peoples attempted their too-cool demeanor and got all laissez-fair like, “Prince, that guy in the corner? He’s pretty cool” signals waiter, gets drink, looks away. I mean, come on…once some friends and I were at a club on 14th street when word went out that Prince was there. People pointed toward a group near us, a whirlpool of people dancing around a very tiny man. That man was Prince. We couldn’t see him (tiny. he was.), but damn if it didn’t feel awesome to know he was there dancing like us. Anyhoo, back to BJ and PJ.

My MTV cohort and I went to pick up the guys from their hotel. I tried very hard to keep myself from tipping over into weird big-sister enthusiasm as they climbed into the rental car. Two shy 18 years old nodding at us. Not smiling. Very quiet. They responded to how-was-the-flight?, how’s-the-hotel? respectfully. From my view in the rear-view, they also looked like they might throw up. When we got to the house, I pulled in, killed the engine, and said, “We’re here!” with possibly to much volume and enthusiasm. Bounding out of the car and opening the back doors, they just looked at each other, then BJ said something like, “I just need a minute.” I stepped away from the car and my compadre and I stood on the grass waiting. And waiting. The MTV camera crew came over. They wanted to film the guys getting out of the car. We watched their profile through the passenger windows. It didn’t seem like they were making any moves to exit. I approached, cracked the door, and asked, “How’re we doing?” They shook their heads. Wouldn’t make eye contact. “Okay, well they’re all really excited to meet you.” nothing. I shut the door and walked away. Went and found the band and told them what was happening. Lars (drummer) nodded his head sagely. “Ah, just a case of the nerves” he said–or something to that effect probably with more swearing. James (guitar) laughed and walked over to the car, opened up the passenger door and slid in. We watched him turn toward the guys and just continue being himself, which was ‘effin James Hetfield. I mean, come on…so great. He stuck his hand back to shake theirs or high-five or something cool, then a couple minutes later, they all got out, passed us by and went into the house. MTV shot some B-roll and it was on. The best day ever was beginning.

After watching as Ricki stuck his microphone in their faces and the band tuned up while treating them like brothers, I went to get something to eat from the catering table outside. The place was gorgeous. Sloping grass lawn down to a boat dock on the bay, the house massive, the grounds extensive. I wandered a bit, then came around one side of the house and saw someone sitting alone on the back lawn, head in arms, arms crossed over knees. The person looked a lot like PJ, even if I couldn’t see his face, the hair seemed a giveaway. I approached slowly, not wanting to ruin a moment, but wanting to make sure he was alright. Hearing me, he lifted his head, the stare pretty bleak. What in hell was happening? “How ya doing?”

He mumbled. “This is the best day of my life.”

That was good, right? “It’s great!” I said, again trying and failing to modulate my own excitement.

“It’s halfway over,” he said, sounding so sad.

“Yeah, but so much more to come.” I vollied.

“Nothing will never be as good as this and it’s almost over.”

“No, come on. This is only the beginning. There’s so much more.” I’d managed to go full-Oprah on the kid mainly because I had no idea how to deal with him just having his feelings. I felt determined to rally him into full good-time mode. Instead he just looked at me like I was an annoying alien, or rather you-don’t-understand adult. “Nah. This is it. Tomorrow we go home and it’s over.” Jeez. I sat down next to him. We stared at the water. I guess I asked him questions because I found out he lived with his mom who worked night shifts at the gas station. He’d never really been out of town. Had a brother (I think. maybe a sister). Hated school. BJ his only friend. They’d been pretty popular after winning the contest. But really BJ had won, so he was just tagging along. He liked to draw. Just about the time he’d pulled out this little sketchpad from his back pocket, Jason came out, yelled, “Hey, PJ, we need you in here.” Then stepped up to us and asked him what he had there. He showed Jason his illustrations. Jason said, “rad, man” (or something like that) and “we could use these in the fanzine.” They got up and went back inside. I sat for a minute thinking on how life-changing events don’t always feel, look, seem enjoyable. They aren’t always fizzed up with happy. Sometimes they’re thick with emotional gravy. Stick-to-the-soul nutrients that need to digest. Part of the learning curve I’d observe with a lot of fans and contest winners over the years.

Stepping back into the studio, I caught the tail end of Kirk (guitarist) teaching BJ some chord changes, then the vocalizing moment you see below happened. Loud magic. Metallica loving on the BJ and PJ and them returning it. Just six guys rolling around in some music, no one any better than the next, even given the talent and income divide, none of that mattered.

The day ended in the back room of a local pizza restaurant where the cameras kept rolling and Ricki kept waving around the microphone. At some point BJ and PJ were spotted standing on chairs, beer steins in hand, singing. Good times, good footage, until it was pointed out that the boys weren’t of drinking age, so the cameras went off and the party went on. Driving them home later, they was again silence in the car—except for the high-pitched ringing in my ears, a sound I’d been hearing pretty consistently since 1991 and still hear in moments of absolute stillness. (Tinnitus, my good friends. Byproduct of the career.) We pulled up to the hotel. Sat for a bit and I thought maybe again they would refuse to get out of the car. This time there was no James Hetfield to pave the way. Finally the back doors opened and they climbed out. Maybe a little drunk, definitely walking on some clouds. That was the last I saw of BJ and PJ. Driving back to my hotel, a little emotional gravy got spooned over my soul thinking What a thing. How we have moments in our lives sometimes so excellent they can be stultifying. Beautifully poignant. Anticipation, expectation, reality. Sometimes they all collide in some magnificent memories. I don’t know where BJ and PJ are today, but wherever that is, what I hope for them in particular—not to mention all the BJs and PJs everywhere—a life equal portions fizz and stick-to-the-soul sustenance. Cheers to that.

*(I found a link to the show here and wow, I just watched it and not only forgot I’d ever seen it, but had the surreal experience of watching my trademark pigtailed self at work twenty-six years ago.)

More tales of Metallica here: