Metallica’s Unspoken Tribute: “Orion” Soars Over Denver on June 27, 2025

As the Mile High sun dipped behind the Rockies on June 27, 2025, Metallica’s Denver show was already electric. Yet it was a surprise performance of “Orion” that sent a chill through Empower Field. The instrumental masterpiece—long associated with late bassist Cliff Burton—rose like a spirit above the stadium, unannounced and utterly breathtaking. It was a rare setlist moment that would define the night and stir memories of the band’s earliest creative fire.

The lights dimmed following “Cyanide,” and without introduction, Rob Trujillo stepped forward alone. With a solemn nod to the crowd, he opened the song with the distinctive melodic bass intro that once belonged to Cliff Burton. Fans immediately recognized it. A hush fell across the stadium, not of confusion, but of reverence—tens of thousands holding their breath as a sacred relic unfolded in real time.

“Orion,” released in 1986 on Master of Puppets, has long served as both a musical outlier and an emotional pillar. It’s one of Metallica’s most complex compositions, weaving harmonies, shifting time signatures, and melodic detours across nearly nine minutes. And that night in Denver, it felt less like a concert and more like a requiem performed at the altar of heavy metal itself.

James Hetfield and Kirk Hammett joined in, their guitars painting slow-moving constellations over Trujillo’s driving lines. Unlike their usual aggressive delivery, the band leaned into the atmosphere—letting each note hang in the thin Denver air as if filling the stadium with something ancient, patient, and vast. The crowd, surprisingly still, became one with the tempo, swaying gently like a sea of shadows.

Lars Ulrich, known for his chaotic precision, approached “Orion” with measured delicacy. His cymbal accents and tom patterns gave the performance a heartbeat, not a race. Every fill was deliberate, as if honoring Burton’s original vision without trying to stamp it with his own bravado. For longtime fans, it was a subtle but beautiful shift—more homage than exhibition.

Rob Trujillo’s role in the song cannot be overstated. Since joining Metallica in 2003, he’s always paid deep respect to Burton’s legacy. But on this night, he embodied it. His bass solo during the dreamy midsection carried the kind of soulful weight usually reserved for vocalists. His fingers danced across the fretboard like a storyteller weaving through pages of a forgotten myth.

Back in 1986, Burton composed much of “Orion” as a progressive statement, blending classical influences with heavy metal’s raw force. It was ambitious, especially for a genre not yet fully respected by the mainstream. Hearing it live in 2025, performed with such care, underscored how timeless the piece remains—and how far the band has come while still staying true to that youthful defiance.

Visuals on the stadium’s circular screens showed deep-space imagery—galaxies forming, collapsing, and reforming—matching the song’s vast emotional arc. As the harmonized guitar lines crested into their final run, fans raised lighters and phone lights in synchronized orbit. There were no lyrics, but thousands mouthed invisible verses, their faces awash in blue and silver light.

Many in the audience weren’t alive when “Orion” was first released. But in that moment, the generational gap collapsed. Teenagers stood beside gray-bearded diehards, each locked into the same pulse. The instrumental’s message—of beauty, chaos, and loss—needed no words. It moved through decades like solar wind, touching everyone in its path.

Backstage after the show, Trujillo reportedly broke into tears while talking with a young fan who said the performance inspired him to start learning bass. Moments like that are why Metallica continues to evolve while remaining deeply rooted in their origins. “Orion” wasn’t just a throwback—it was a reminder of how music, even without lyrics, can shape a life.

Setlist nerds online went into a frenzy. “Orion” had only been played a handful of times since its full revival during the 2006 Orion Music + More festival. Denver’s rendition immediately entered Metallica lore, shared across fan forums, TikTok edits, and bootleg YouTube videos racking up millions of views within hours.

James Hetfield, usually verbose between songs, said nothing when it ended. He simply looked to the sky, nodded once, and mouthed the word “Cliff.” The silence that followed spoke louder than any anthem they could’ve played next. For fans, it wasn’t just music—it was communion. The kind of unrepeatable experience that fuses soul and memory.

“Orion” has always been a shape-shifter. On some nights it’s dreamy and distant; on others, aggressive and urgent. In Denver, it was intimate. The band played not to impress but to express. No fire, no explosions—just tone, melody, and mood. It was everything Metallica is when the noise drops and the emotion rises.

For many in the crowd, that performance alone was worth the price of admission. Not just because of the rarity, but because of how it felt—personal, reverent, and honest. The kind of moment you don’t see coming but never forget once it lands.

As the final notes faded into the night and the next song crashed in, the crowd roared. But for a split second, before the noise returned, the entire stadium held its breath. In that silence, Cliff Burton lived again. And in that memory, “Orion” became more than a song—it became a presence.