Metallica’s “72 Seasons” Tour Storms Tampa — A Night-Two Blowout for the Ages, June 6 2025

The humid Florida dusk had barely settled over Raymond James Stadium when the familiar blare of AC/DC’s “It’s a Long Way to the Top” rolled across 60,000 eager fans, signaling the start of Metallica’s second “No Repeat Weekend” show in Tampa. Moments later, Ennio Morricone’s “The Ecstasy of Gold” swelled through the loudspeakers, and the crowd’s roar became a living thing, rattling the upper decks before a single riff had been struck.

With the house already shaking, James Hetfield stalked to center stage and fired the machine-gun down-picks of “Whiplash,” a nod to the band’s 1983 club days when they played Tampa for beer money. One minute in, Lars Ulrich’s ruthless double-kick barrage locked every neck in the stadium into synchronous head-banging, proving the veterans could still open a set like hungry garage kids hunting their first record deal.

The early barrage segued into “For Whom the Bell Tolls” and the title cut “Ride the Lightning,” sparking thousands of lighters and phone flashlights from the floor to the nosebleeds. Each tolling bass note reminded longtime locals of Metallica’s 1989 stop at Lakeland Civic Center, when roadies used real anvils for the intro and pyrotechnics nearly melted ceiling tiles.

Tampa got its first taste of the 72 Seasons era when the twin salvo “Lux Æterna” and “Screaming Suicide” lit up the circular runway. Hearing gray-beard fans shout brand-new lyrics in perfect time showed just how quickly the 2023 album had embedded itself in the canon—rare territory for a band more than four decades into its career and still relentlessly forward-looking.

All eyes tracked Kirk Hammett and Robert Trujillo as they launched the nightly “Kirk & Rob Doodle,” their wild-card interlude. Tonight the pair stitched together the Miami Vice theme with a dash of Cliff Burton’s “Anesthesia,” earning a hometown roar that rolled clear across the bay to late-night bars in Ybor City. It was loose, fearless, and unmistakably Florida.

Mid-set, the mood shifted to brooding menace when “Welcome Home (Sanitarium)” crept from the PA. Giant LED pillars bathed Hetfield in cold blue, echoing the song’s gothic psychiatric themes as phones swayed like modern lighters. In a single breath, Metallica flipped from speed-freak aggression to emotional torture chamber, showcasing their dramatic range.

After a brief tech reset, the lights snapped to desert-gold and the snake-charmer drone of “Wherever I May Roam” slithered out. Hetfield let the crowd carry the final “roam” while Hammett’s sitar-like intro rang across the open air, transforming the stadium into a rolling caravan of riffs and restless wanderers bound together by song.

Then came the centerpiece: the instrumental epic “The Call of Ktulu.” With no vocals to anchor them, Hammett and Trujillo traded melodic lines over Ulrich’s rolling toms, turning the football cathedral into an ocean of slow-crashing waves. For Tampa’s die-hard musicians, it felt like a master class in dynamic tension and cinematic storytelling without a single lyric.

A hush preceded “The Unforgiven,” and Hetfield’s weathered baritone added new gravity to lyrics about guilt and isolation. Fans who first heard the track on CD Walkmans in ’91 now mouthed every word while holding their own kids aloft—proof that a metal ballad can age like a timeless folk song, binding generations through shared vulnerability.

Surprises weren’t done. With a playful wink, Ulrich pounded the intro to “Whiskey in the Jar,” transforming a 17th-century Irish folk tune into a Gulf Coast sing-along. Trujillo spun in his trademark helicopter dance while Hammett coaxed wah-wah howls that ricocheted off the bleachers like echoes in a packed pub at closing time.

The temperature spiked when “Blackened” detonated like a firecracker string, its apocalyptic imagery eerily apt in a state forever eyeing the next hurricane. Each time Hetfield spat “Fire is the outcome,” synchronized flame towers leapt skyward, bathing the crowd in scarlet heat and turning the field into a vision of the song’s scorched-earth prophecy.

An unmistakable Morse-code riff and machine-gun strobes signaled “One.” As white-hot flashes mimicked artillery, thousands of fists punched the night in perfect cadence. Hammett’s anguished solo sliced through humid air, while Ulrich’s snare cracked like distant ordnance, re-creating the chaos of the battlefield inside a Floridian coliseum.

When the first clean chords of “Nothing Else Matters” drifted out, couples who had met at earlier Metallica gigs swayed arm-in-arm. Hetfield’s softer phrasing—tempered by years of vocal rehab—proved the band can still find tenderness amid thunder, balancing brute force with a poignancy that few heavy acts ever master.

Finally, “Enter Sandman” erupted in blinding light and cascading sparks. During the whispered bedtime prayer, the stadium plunged into darkness except for a sea of phone screens, creating a galaxy under Tampa’s sticky night sky. Every generation—Gen Alpha in ear defenders to gray-haired thrash pioneers—belted “Off to never-never land!” until the rafters shook.

As fireworks faded and the last E-chord decayed, Hetfield simply murmured, “Thank you, Tampa family,” and pointed skyward. Exiting down a ramp lined with posters from past Florida gigs, the band left fans hoarse but euphoric, certain they’d witnessed not just another tour stop but a living scrapbook page—a night where forty-two years of metal history blazed fresh and loud as ever.