This story is a fictional look at what might have happened if Cliff was not killed in the bus accident in 1986. Pass it along to every Metallifan you know.
by Christopher Keene
"Not dead which eternal lie, stranger ones death may die . . . "
H.P. Lovecraft
"Who the hell are you?" asks Cliff Burton.
A dark figure stands before him, no emotions upon its face. Holding up a sickle, it asks in a dark voice, "Is this not enough of a hint?"
Unimpresed by the sarcasm, Cliff shrugs. "The glorious Angel Of Death, I presume?"
"I am he. You can call me Death, for short."
Goddam, it's cold, the bassist thinks. But was he a bassist anymore? He sees himself as the ambulance crew places a sheet over his body. His bandmates look onto the whole event as the tour manager tries consoling them. James cries openly. Kirk is weeping softly, leaning against a terror-stricken Lars. They seem frozen in a terrible moment of time that refuses to pass.
And then it hit him - Cliff Burton, bassist of Metallica, was undoubtedly dead.
To hell with that, he thinks.
"That's bull, man. No way." He shakes his head, runing his fingers through his auburn mane.
"The end comes to all, Cliff. It is not an ignoble thing."
But Cliff can't - won't - hear him. "I ain't dying, man. No goddamn way. I can't die. There's too much at stake, here."
Death rolls his eyes. "I've heard that story before, Cliff. Honestly, why should you not die? What makes you more important than, say, some child with lukemia?
Do you think he wants to go when the time comes?"
"That's a cheap shot, man." You s.o.b, thinks Cliff. Scowling, he shoves a finger in Death's face. "But . . . I'll tell you about lukemia - Music is infected with it. It's smeared with dishonesty, choked off by boundaries, and rotted with greed. My band, Metallica, we're the cure for that, you could say. And JUST when we're about ready to scratch the surface . . . along comes Mister Death and pulls the carpet out from under us. What, do you get your jollies cutting people off just as they hit the prime of their life? Morbid jerkoff."
"Nice speech," Death says, "but it delays the inevitable. We must be going."
Cliff is beside himself - almost literally. Exasperated, he asks, "You don't get it, do you? This isn't about me - I'm not being selfish here. I devoted my life to music, and now music's ill. It looks just as desolate as this!" He points to the frozen tundra around the highway. "It'll die off if we don't do something about it. Or is that what you want, too?"
"Music," mutters Death. "Assuredly, it is sick. I mean, aren't we all nauseous at the sight of Motely Crue?"
"Exactly," said Cliff. "I -"
Death waves him off. "I'm not done yet. About death - it's not final, Cliff. You can go to a world far more magnificent than you can imagine. All of your wildest dreams can be at your fingertips - a mere wish away."
"Sounds terrific. But I like to fight for what I want - and I'll fight to the death to re-establish integrity into the soul of music. Listen, pal - there's a time to reap, and there's a time to sow. The time to reap is not now. Sow me back together and let me return. Reap me another day."
"Have you no faith that your bandmembers could continue the fight without you? Don't you have faith that they would win in the end?"
Cliff looks around. His bandmates are slowly shuffling away, mired in sorrow. " It's doubtful. It's so doubtful it hurts." He turns again to face Death, staring intently at him.
"Hurt? Hmph . . . you don't know the meaning of hurt. No, I don't think you do. I mean, sure, I can turn the clock back, bring you back to life. But if I do - you're not going to just jump back on stage tomorrow night, get my meaning? If I arrive on the scene, it's not because I want to play checkers. Somethings going down, kapeesh? That bus is going to flip one way or the other."
"So let it be done," Cliff quotes.
Death turns somber. "I am creeping death, assuredly. Most people never get a second chance, Cliff. Understand this - you will not recieve a third chance. I wil l come for you someday. Agreed?"
Solemnly, Cliff nods in agreement.
"By the way, have you ever had three tons of machinery pin you to the ground before?", Death asks.
"Uh, gee, no. That ain't my style."
"Sorry to hear that."
The bus driver never sees the ice patch, but he knows when he's come upon it. Three tons of bus begin spinning out of control on a patch of ice no more than a quarter inch thick - just enough to be deadly. He tries to regain some semblance of control. He thinks he almost has it - but then suddenly the bus is no longer on ice, but skidding on tar. The tar grips the tires. All would be well, save for one small fact - the bus is sideways. It lurches violently.
James had had a hard time falling asleep, his sleep plauged with an odd nightmare about being strapped down to an emergency table. He wakes, staring at the ceiling. No, wait a minute here. What is the rug doing on the frigging ceiling? What the hell is going on here?
No sooner does he realize that he's staring at the floor than he hears a hoarse voice pleading for help. There's also one hell of a cold draft in the room, suddenly. He looks at where the window is - but not only had the floor and ceiling changed places, so had everything else. And . . . something about the window isn't right. It's bad, he feels.
The only view the window offers is the blacktop of a highway - and someone's leg. "Help me . . . James . . . Kirk . . . "says the voice.
James feels terror welling up in the pit of his stomach. "What?" he asks.
After a pause, the voice comes again. "I'm under the goddamn bus, man."
*****News Flash*****
"And there was and terrible accident this week in rock. En route to a gig in Denmark, Metallica's tour bus flipped over on an icy stretch of road. There were no fatalities, however the bass player, Cliff Burton, was severly injured."
"A spokesperson for the band said it appears that Burton's left arm was broken and his left hand shattered. Also, Burton suffered a severe spinal injury. Metallica's spokeperson says Burton may never walk again . . . The remaining European tour dates have consequently been canceled, with no immediate plans for the future."
An Interview with Lars Ulrich in RIP Magazine (Dec. 86)
RIP: How is Cliff's therapy coming?
Lars Ulrich: Absolutely remarkable. You wouldn't believe it! The resolve . . . I remember back in October, he was in tears when the doctors told him he'd never walk again, and then just last week he can wiggle his toes, whereas he couldn't do anything before.
RIP: Was he paralyzed?
LU: From the waist down, I geuss he was. But he's working with some specialized surgeons. They just might get him back on his feet. I'll crap my pants the day that happens.
RIP: This must have also strengthened the resolve of the band.
LU: You know, I thought it was the end of the world when Master Of Puppets was certified gold. But speaking for myself, now that Cliff's . . . accident has happened, there's been a major shift in priorities. I wouldn't say that we've grown as a band, because that's a kind of odd subject right now. But we certainly have come together as four individuals.
RIP: Are there any plans for the band?
LU: Well, you know he's essentially paralyzed. But he could care less. He's more infuriated with his hand than anything else. He probably won't ever be able to play - I mean, not the way he used to. Some of his nerves and tendons were damaged. It's all he can do to make a fist. So, having said that .
RIP: Is there a band at this point?
LU: James was very much against Cliff (Burnstein, manager) and Peter's (Mensch, manager) using the word "band" for awhile. He was very worried about Cliff, as a friend, but in the back of his mind he, just like Kirk and I, wondered about the future of Metallica. Right now we're just glad that Cliff's alive, and everything else - all the industry bullshit - doesn't amount to a hill of beans. I just want to add that we're overwhelmed with the tons of mail we have recieved from fans - mountains of get well cards. The guy who runs our fan club is kinda freaking out. I'm certain, though, we'll work something together. It's just that this is such an odd time.
RIP: If there was one person who could see it through, most people would say it would be you.
LU: I geuss, in the early days, I was a band leader of sorts. We've gone through quite a bit to get to where we are. This is quite different, though. I've come to realize it's a bit more than one guy can handle alone. We're all working through this together. The bond of Metallica, as individuals, is growing even stronger. If we do manage to pull ourselves out of this, I highly doubt anything else could bog us down like this ever again.
An Interview With James Hetfeild in Kerrang (July 87)
Kerrang: Can you tell us the status of Metallica?
James Hetfeild: We went through some changes since last fall with Cliff's accident.
K: What types of changes?
James: We had a band meeting around March. We decided that we wanted to continue with a new bass player, but we didn't wish to kick Cliff out of the band cause he can't play anymore. He's going to take on a more creative role within the band. He wants to get into producing.
K: He's producing the soon to be released E.P?
James: Yeah. He don't really know too much about that kind of stuff, but what do you really need to know? "Hey, where's the volume knob?" that kind of thing. If he can turn it up he's got the job, ha ha. Don't forget to hit the record button, either.
K: What can we expect from the EP?
James: A bunch of covers from the Misfits, Diamond Head. We recorded them with the new bass player.
K: Tell us about the newest member.
James: His name is Jason Newsted. We tease him pretty bad, like how he freaks out when Cliff is watching him jam. He gets wicked antsy. He can jam, though. A lot of the people we tried to audition thought it was a rally to impress Cliff, instead of being an opportunity to be in Metallica. One guy came in and played way outta tune. We basically threw him out. Another guy talked too much. One of Kirks friends showed up, but he was into a major funk, slap-bass type of thing, which was fun, but its not really our style. Jason had the right attitude. He basically passed all the tests, including the 'go out drinking with Metallica' test (laughter).
K: Are there any plans to tour?
James: Well, we plan to do some warm up shows in Japan, and then head over here to do the Monsters gig. Then after that we'll do some more headline shows.
K: Jason is a full member, now?
James: When erect, yes.
K: Excuse me?
James: Yeah, he is. I mean, Cliff will still be there, but he can't play, so we needed someone who could play on tour but also give some input in the studio. I hate the term "hired hand", so we made Jason an official Metallica member after a long night of drinking Vodka. We have two bass drums, why not have two bass guitars, ha ha.
K: What will Cliff be doing when you are on tour?
James: More therapy. He wants to walk again. But more than that, he wants to play again, too. He wants to walk out onstage and play like he used to, and no matter what, he refuses to take no for an answer.
K: Is he getting better?
James: Lots. He's got feeling back in his legs now, but since his knees and his hip got severly damaged, there's not much he can do. He can't stand erect, he goes around the studio - actually Lars' garage - and tries to flip people the bird with his injured hand. He's in a wheelchair. Last week, he and Jason actually played the same bass at the same time! It was cool to watch. Cliff picked the strings and Jason did the fret-work.
K: There's also a video coming out?
James: Cliff's met a lot of parapalegic fans throughout his ordeal. He inspired some, and was inspired by others. He thought some kind of donation could help more underprivleged people who, for whatever reason, can't get the kind of treatment that he can afford. We're gonna have a certain amount of proceeds from the video go to a foundation.
K: What is on the video?
James: A bunch of stuff from the early days. It's kinda like having your very own bootleg, except this isn't some 15th generation crap tape from a tape trader. Instead of doing the typical nine-camera, super-duty phonic sound thing, with fuckin' super-stereo this, that, and the other thing, we thought of a different approach. Some of it's real primitive. It's hella-Metallica, though.
Review Of ...And Justice For All (Elektra) in Rolling Stone (June 89)
Metallica is back. The San Fransisco thrash band's new album ...And Justice For All screams this point into your brain time and time again. This band of musicians have bounced back marvelously from the accident of Cliff Burton, who has co-producing credits with Flemming Rasmussen. Burton also has two song writing credits, the grinding instrumental "To Live Is To Die" and the somber ballad "One" which he penned with guitarist/singer James Hetfeild.
The rest of the band shines, as well. The stop/start, tight-as-a-high-school-girl rythym section of Lars Ulrich and Jason Newsted, Burton's replacement, surges beneath Hetfield's powerful riffage during the songs "Blackened" and the nine minute-plus title track. "Harvester Of Sorrow" might just be the most powerful song Metallica has ever put on vinyl. "Frayed Ends Of Sanity" features a spooky intro with exceptional light speed solos provided by lead guitarist Kirk Hammett, as does "Shortest Straw" which deals with blacklisting.
Don't expect anything from this album, the bands fourth, to show up on QHITS anytime soon. The shortest song on the album "Dyer's Eve" is five minutes long which is about two minutes too long for the likes of Harold T Programmer, and because of the scathing nature of the song (Damage Inc, anybody?) you wouldn't hear it until the wee hours, in any event. The first single from ...Justice, "Eye Of The Beholder", a Metalli-ode to censorship, alludes to the limited views of radio and the greasy label-lords that don't plan on making Metallica's rise to stardom an easy task.
But that's not Metallica's modis operandi. Setting the standard, and then breaking it is their lifeblood. For a band that was force-fed swift change, the music has benifited greatly from it. Even the bass work shines crisp and clear, which is more than can be said about Burton's earlier production (?) of Garage Days Re-Revisited. Apparently his good hand works just fine, and the Rasmussen-Burton tag team twisted the knobs in just the right places, capturing the super-sonic grandeur that is Metallica. Justice has been served, folks. Now eat it.
Seattle, Washington, August 30th 89
A grin comes over Burtons face as a sweaty Kirk Hammet exits the stage. "Man, you guys are slaying out there!" he exclaims. "You blew 'em all to hell!"
Kirk smiles, exhaustion enveloping him although he's exuberant at the same time. "Metal!" he says, and gives Burton a high five.
Jason Newsted is leaning on a roadie as he saunters off-stage. He looks at Cliff and gives an evil grin. It soon turns to a full-on Satanic countenance.
"Does your mother let you out of the house like that?" asks Burton cheerfully. He's taken quite a liking to bass prodigy-in-the-making. "Your bass went out. I couldn't hear you."
"Yeah, I know. It really sucked. I was depressed for a moment," says Jason while keeping his demonic pose. It looks so comical, Kirk and Cliff burst out laughing, followed by Jason and his roadie.
James comes into the hysteria, says nothing. It's total Metalli-time, to him, and he's not easily swayed by the whatever antics Cliff is up to now. Last week Cliff wheeled himself onstage during Battery and tried to give him a wedgie in front of ten thousand lunatics. Ha ha, very funny. He hands his ESP to his roadie, grabs a beer and downs it. He stretches, ignoring them, and reaches for another guitar.
"What're we doing next?" James asks.
"Let's jam on something," suggests Lars as he rushes off-stage. He towels himself off and kisses Burton on the cheek. Cliff then pinches Lars's butt with his bad hand, suprised at the dexterity he can manage these days. But his amazement only lasts a moment, as Lars tries to lather his face with his tounge and give him a titty-twist at the same time.
Jason starts to play the "doh DE doh" part of Frayed Ends Of Sanity. He can plainly hear the audience chanting along with him. Suddenly James starts playing it, and Lars rushes to his drums.
As Kirk follows them on-stage, Cliff hollers out, "Break a leg, man!"
Kirk sticks his tounge out, then says, "Well, we certainly ain't here to play checkers!" He leaves into the glare of the stage lights.
Where have I heard that before? wonders Cliff. I . . .
"Boo," says Death, appearing from out of nowhere.
No . . . no, Cliff thinks. He assumes he's dreaming.
"Relax, no one can hear us. And I'm not here to come for you. Frankly, it's just one of those rare occasions that I'm not here for anyone."
"Well what do you want?"
Death crosses his arms, shakes his head. "I'm unimpressed, Cliff. It was by this time that I had expected your battle would have been won. But the barriers you explained to me have not been broken down."
"Yet," counters Cliff. "You gave me a pretty bad bargian, you dick."
Death frowns. "I didn't need to give you a bargian at all. You're on the threshold of something great, Cliff. This band is one step away from truly taking a giant leap. Integrity - something else you mentioned - that's not there, yet, not in music. But I'm here to tell you - many people in high places are watching you , Cliff. The greedy labels, poseur bands . . . they see a man who is only in it for the music. They hear that you are more furious that you cannot play than not being able to walk. Assuredly, the entire band is in it for the music - but they are but the lamp. You, my freind, are the shining light, the beacon of strength."
Cliff shakes his head. "So what's the problem?"
"The problem is secondary. You need to focus on the solution, which is, to win the fight. And how is that accomplished? By making a great thrash album, or by making a great Metallica album? Which is the proper goal?"
Cliff didn't understand. "What?"
"You're the one who took music theory. You tell me."
"You mean to say our music's isn't good enough?"
The dark figure nods. "What did I mention - barriers? Perhaps you should not focus so much on the barriers of the sickened music industry, but instead the barriers of Metallica, the band. Then, heads will roll. Those people I mentioned, they're on the verge of questioning their own motives and their own goals. It doesn't mean that they'll all become Metallica fans, but it means that they'll take stock of themselves and see what they are. Then, perhaps, integrity will be restored. Yet to have integrity, there must be dishonesty. You must be prepared to accept that standoff. It's the only way to assure that music remains healthy long after your passing."
Cliff stares at the dark figure for a time. "Sounds like a deal," he says. "Now begone, Mister Death. I got a show to watch and you're in my way."
"As you wish." He leaves in an instant.
James hollers, "Adrenaline starts to flow - you're thrashing all around - acting like a maniac- "
"Whiplash," Cliff says to himself, and takes a sip of his drink.
October 4th, 1990
"Getting tired, Mr. Burton?" asks the therapist.
"Frustrated is more like it," Cliff says, weary from thirty rigorous minutes of leg exercises.
Hanging in a speciallized harness meant to assist him in strengthening the proper muscles for walking (or just standing erect), Cliff pounds his fist against the parallel bars. They're meant for him to use like a walker an elderly person would use. He would lean on them while edging his feet forward. Before he could have arrived at this stage, though, he had underwent even more detailed rehab for his left hand and forearm muscles. It was working, though. The other day he'd picked his nose with the rehabed hand and flung a booger at Kirk. But lately . . . dammit, this walking business is bull, he thinks. I get to hang here like a goddamn slab of bacon for two 90-mintute sessions a week. I'm but a travesty of my former self and there's no point in lying to myself; sometimes I think I was better off dead.
"Would you like to take a break, sir?" she asks.
"Get me out of this," he says, pointing to the harness, shaking his head.
She helps him out of the harness, and into his wheelchair. She turns to get some salve, as the harness chafes his underarm. When she comes back though, she sees him wheeling toward the door. "Mr. Burton?"
The door slamming shut is the only sound he makes. Whatever has come over him lately? His progress has been nothing short of miraculous these past months . . . but recently he began to get antsy and discouraged. She prayed he'd come out of it soon.
Damm this, he thinks, whizing down the clinics isles as though it's the Daytona raceway. That bastard should've taken me back in 86. I can't possibly do this. To hell with fans, to hell with freinds - who am I kidding? Music will have to fight it's own battles. I was once a soldier, yes, but now I'm but an empty shell .
He ignores the receptionists farewell. Arriving at the exit, he opens the door - and is greeted by none other than Lars Ulrich.
Cliff is suprised to see him. Lars, too, seems a bit taken aback, but quickly grabs the wheelchair's handles and rushes at a breakneck pace to the parking lot. Cliff wonderes idly if he's being kidnapped or something.
"Take it easy on these old bones," he says jokingly while his knuckles turn white
But Lars doesn't hear him. "You gotta hear this, Cliff. We were working on it earlier today and I had to get it out here to you. I even got a speeding ticket-"
No wonder, he thinks.
"-but I told the cop I was Rikki Rocket, so . . ." He stops at his black Jaguar, rolls down the tinted windows. He then parks Cliff right beside the passenger side door. Lars pops into the driver's seat, turns his radio on - actually, more like a Marshall stack - and inserts a cassette into the tape deck. He aims for the play button, but he is so excited and nervous he accidentally hits the FM switch, and Neil Diamond starts blaring.
