Metallica Reignited Thrash Mayhem with a Scorching “Whiplash” in Santa Clara 2025
Metallica’s second night at Levi’s Stadium on 22 June 2025 opened with the familiar Morricone swell of “The Ecstasy of Gold,” then plunged straight into “Whiplash,” a one-two punch that set 50,000 voices roaring at once. The Santa Clara air still carried a salty Pacific chill, but the temperature on the floor spiked the moment Lars counted in and James barked that first serrated line—“Late at night, all systems go!”—reminding everyone why this 1983 track remains the purest shot of thrash adrenaline ever pressed to vinyl.
Written when the band members were barely out of their teens, “Whiplash” was Metallica’s manifesto: breakneck tempos, palm-muted riffs, and lyrics that celebrated danger as a lifestyle. Hearing it four decades later—delivered by musicians now deep into their sixties—wasn’t nostalgic; it felt defiantly current. The song’s frantic pace echoed the Bay Area’s own history with speed-metal mayhem, a subculture nurtured in clubs only forty miles north in San Francisco where “Whiplash” was once road-tested in front of a few dozen die-hards.
The M72 tour’s “No Repeat Weekend” format meant that Sunday’s set would share zero overlap with Friday’s, giving “Whiplash” a special spotlight. Long-time fans could sense that extra voltage: phones dropped, fists rose, and entire rows turned into rolling pits. Security teams, fully briefed from Night 1, widened the barricade lanes to catch surfers tumbling headfirst over the rail—an echo of the Bay Area’s storied “day on the green” chaos from the mid-80s.
James Hetfield’s voice cut through the stadium PA with surprising edge, a growl sharpened by decades of conditioning. Earlier in the tour he joked about “aging like a diesel,” needing warm-ups to start but running forever once lit. Santa Clara was proof. Each “WHIP-LAAAAASH” syllable landed like a punch, buoyed by stadium acoustics tweaked by Meyer Sound engineers who have refined the band’s live mix since 2004.
Lars Ulrich played the tune at original album speed—no slowed-down “stadium tempo” tonight—hitting the double-time bridge fills with the same determination that got him laughed out of early Hollywood auditions for being “too fast.” He flashed a grin at camera three when he nailed the eight-bar snare barrage, a private victory lap shared with millions via the livestream that rocketed across TikTok within minutes.
Robert Trujillo’s bass thundered beneath the carnage, his right hand delivering galloping triplets that paid homage to Cliff Burton’s ferocity without copying it. At one point he pivoted up-stage and locked eyes with Kirk Hammett during an improvised chromatic run—a move insiders call “the Trujillo skyscraper” because of how it lifts the band in real time. The exchange drew a volley of pyrotechnic strobes, timed to the riff’s machine-gun accents.
Kirk’s solo, always a highlight, felt almost feral tonight. He bent into the E minor pentatonic as if chasing his 20-year-old self, then veered into a brief melodic quotation of “Leper Messiah”—a playful nod to Friday’s set list. The Santa Clara crowd rewarded him with a roar loud enough to shake the aluminum bleachers; a stadium engineer later confirmed peak dB levels matching those recorded at 49ers playoff games.
One of the night’s more touching visuals came on the massive LED backdrops: archival footage of tiny clubs like the Stone and Ruthie’s Inn rolled behind the band while “Whiplash” blazed on, a cinematic reminder that Metallica once lugged the same gear up rickety stairwells for a $10 guarantee and lukewarm beers. The contrast—multi-million-dollar rig today, same riff yesterday—underscored how authenticity survives scale.
Families were everywhere, evidence of generational hand-offs. A gray-bearded father in row 14 lofted his nine-year-old son onto his shoulders during the chorus; two seats over, a woman wearing the classic “Metal Up Your Ass” tee FaceTimed her own dad, a 1985 Day on the Green veteran, so he could see the hometown heroes slam through the song he once heard on cassette in a beat-up Camaro.
For Bay Area loyalists, this was more than a gig: it was a homecoming. Metallica recorded their earliest demos only an hour away in El Cerrito, and hometown shows carry extra emotional heft. When James shouted “It’s good to be back!” between verses, he wasn’t pandering; you could hear decades of triumphs and tragedies—Cliff’s loss, rehab stints, “Some Kind of Monster” turmoil—folded into that single line.
“Whiplash” also served as a salute to the night’s openers. Pantera, Suicidal Tendencies, and Limp Bizkit had primed the crowd with their own flavors of aggression, but it was Metallica’s proto-thrash blueprint that made their existence possible. Observant fans caught a quick side-stage cameo from Phil Anselmo banging his head like it was 1992, a gesture of respect from one pioneer to another.
Though the stadium show bristled with state-of-the-art tech—cyber-sync pyro bursts, 360-degree drone cams—the energy felt refreshingly analog. No backing tracks, no click track crutches. The relentlessness of “Whiplash” forced even casual attendees to reckon with metal’s primal roots: human limbs, wooden sticks, vibrating strings, and the communal pulse of thousands of hearts slamming in 4/4 time.
As the final chord rang out, giant LED digits flashed “1983-2025,” bridging the 42-year arc since the song’s release. In that moment, the track felt like both an epitaph to youth and a declaration of immortality—proof that speed can age gracefully if the spirit behind it stays curious and hungry.
The band paused only long enough to sip water and throw picks before diving into “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” but you could sense “Whiplash” reverberating through every subsequent song. It set a benchmark of ferocity the set never dipped below, charging “Ride the Lightning,” “Lux Æterna,” and even ballads like “Nothing Else Matters” with an extra jolt.
When the house lights finally came up after “Enter Sandman,” thousands poured into the Santa Clara night humming that original Kill ’Em All riff. “Whiplash” had opened the evening, but its echo accompanied fans into parking lots, trains, and ride-shares—a reminder that while decades pass and production values soar, the raw thrill of four musicians attacking a killer riff still whips necks and stirs souls like nothing else on earth.
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