Metallica Lifted Spirits with a Transcendent “Orion” in Santa Clara 2025

During Metallica’s stirring rendition of their instrumental masterpiece “Orion” at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara on June 20, 2025, 60-year-old James Hetfield stepped to center stage and let the iconic twin-guitar opening breathe over a sea of 68,000 hushed fans. His subtle nod to Kirk Hammett signaled the start of an eight-minute journey that felt more like a cinematic score than a standard stadium rocker, instantly transporting longtime supporters back to the band’s Master of Puppets era.

Even before the first harmony rang out, Hetfield raised his black ESP to the sky in a silent tribute to the late Cliff Burton, whose unmistakable bass melodies drive the original track. The gesture drew a collective cheer from older fans who remember Burton’s impact, while newer attendees—many seeing “Orion” live for the first time—felt the gravity of that moment despite having no personal memories of the bassist.

As Hammett and Hetfield wove their guitars in counterpoint, Robert Trujillo filled Levi’s massive bowl with the warm, fretless tone Burton once pioneered. He played near the stage’s down-front edge, bending low enough to lock eyes with front-row teenagers decked out in vintage Kill ’Em All shirts—proof that Metallica’s legacy transcends generation gaps.

Lars Ulrich, perched on the rotating drum riser, chose restraint over thunder early on, marking time with delicate ride-cymbal taps. That gentler approach highlighted the piece’s symphonic underbelly and set up the heavier passages to land with crushing authority. Each shift in volume felt like a tide coming in—inevitable, overwhelming, and perfectly on cue.

Halfway through, the stage lights shifted from deep blues to glowing amber, evoking a twilight glow that matched the song’s contemplative mid-section. In that softer pocket, Hammett coaxed ethereal feedback swells from his silver Les Paul, letting each lingering note hover in the cool Bay Area air before melting into the next chord, an audible sigh for the absent Burton.

Fans who grew up spinning Master of Puppets on cassette recognized every subtle tempo change. Some held homemade banners reading “Orion Forever,” while others simply closed their eyes, letting the music wash over them without the distraction of phone screens. Rarely does a stadium crowd fall so silent in reverence, yet every soul seemed locked in the same collective daydream.

Hetfield’s facial expressions told a story all their own—eyes closed during quieter passages, then flaring open with near-feral intensity when the main riff returned. Although “Orion” has no lyrics, his physical delivery conveyed a narrative of loss, triumph, and survival, mirroring Metallica’s long history of reinvention after tragedy.

When the composition’s dramatic bass-lead reprise arrived, Trujillo took center stage, spotlight bathing him in stark white as he thumb-picked the haunting melody Burton wrote nearly four decades earlier. His fingers danced across the fretboard with a mix of reverence and flair, subtly personalizing the line without overshadowing its original spirit.

Behind him, giant LED screens projected black-and-white footage of the band’s mid-’80s rehearsals—skinny teenagers thrashing in tight practice rooms juxtaposed against their present-day stadium dominance. The montage drew cheers and tears in equal measure, underscoring how a once-underground act had become the elder statesmen of heavy music without sacrificing authenticity.

As the outro accelerated, Ulrich let loose, peppering snare rolls and cymbal crashes with youthful abandon. Hammett and Hetfield circled each other like duelists, trading harmonized arpeggios until the final unified down-stroke echoed through Levi’s concrete tiers. For a fleeting second, every light in the stadium flickered in unison, as though the electricity itself bowed to the music.

The roar that followed was instant and thunderous. Hetfield placed his palm over his heart, mouthing, “For Cliff,” drawing another wave of cheers. Hammett pointed skyward, and Trujillo pounded his fist against his chest—three gestures that collectively said more than any stage banter could convey about Burton’s enduring imprint on the band’s DNA.

Social media erupted even before the final chord decayed. Within hours, fan-shot videos compiled millions of views, with comments praising not just the spectacular musicianship but also the emotional heft of witnessing “Orion” performed by musicians now in their early sixties. Many called it the night’s most transcendent segment, eclipsing even the pyro-laden hits that framed the setlist.

Backstage, in a quick interview for the tour’s official channel, Hetfield noted that Santa Clara felt especially “spiritual” because of its proximity to the band’s Bay Area roots. He reflected on how songs like “Orion” evolve each decade: “The notes stay the same, but what’s behind them changes as we change.” The comment circulated widely, striking a chord with fans who’ve aged alongside the band.

Critics, too, singled out the instrumental as a highlight. Local papers lauded the performance for showcasing an often-overlooked side of Metallica—their ability to be subtle, sophisticated composers rather than just thrash titans. Reviewers praised Ulrich’s dynamic control and Hammett’s tasteful phrasing, emphasizing that instrumentation alone can carry the emotional weight of any ballad.

By the time crowds spilled onto Tasman Drive, one phrase dominated every conversation: “Did you hear ‘Orion’?” Even diehard metalheads who’d seen dozens of shows said this reading felt fresh—more mature yet equally fierce. It served as both a love letter to their fallen friend and a reminder that Metallica’s artistic pulse still beats strong, no matter how many decades roll by.

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