There's but a shot glass full of so-mainstream-they're-household-names in music, like, ever. Only a few of these are monumental musical legends that any discerning muso_ must-see_ before your clogs are popped. Even fewer of these giants play anything where the words 'brutal', 'thud' or 'pounding' could be reeled off by your average, musically-ignorant, eleven year old kid, who can describe 'em and show you his mini rock antlers, despite never hearing a note..

Tonight's all about the fan-club launch of Death Magnetic, their long awaited ninth album. You know they're back because everywhere from the usual haunts of Bat for Lashes and Kate Nash (like BBC Culture show and the Guardian); through to the cover of Q and the racks in your local Tesco, the name Metallica is stabbing out at you but not seeming particularly out of place for the biggest cult band, like, ever since music began, probably. And tonight, the furrow-browed outsiders are congregating. They've removed the walkmans that are eternally glued in their ear holes from school to factory floor. They've washed their favourite black tee (Metallica or other faded band logo optional) and even thought about picking crumbs out of their curly goatees.

I've always had a problem with Metallica. It's not that I don't metal, nor their music (cus I kinda do) but because of the all or nothing, trainspotterish way their fans obsess over them. The Star Wars, G'n'R/Hendrix, guitar pedals/drums, 'tallica and, maybe wrestling or football, but seriously, nothing else matters. You probably know the sort, that strangely happy to conform to metaller cliches, the cluster of loners in ripped jeans kinda vibe, congregating as the oppressed victims of society but collectively, Metallica fans have become one of the biggest tribes of modern civilization.

Tonight, is not about depth but experience. Whereas rock criticism is an art form, metal is to be felt. It's for flooding everything else out of your conciousness, grabbing you by the scruff of your neck and dragging you down to the fiery depths.

Watching Metallica is:

Like claws scratching your ears.

To be battered by the sides of the barrel.

Like a slow-mo air crash.

A meteor shower of clattering and twiddly noises.

Like putting your soul in with a sack and setting it on fire.

An evacuation of your senses, a slave not to the beat but the guttural rumble.

It's posturing, less bravado more like being at WWF Summerslam '91!

It is riff, after riff, after riff.

What's surprising isn't how they manage to get a sea of horns for every song (excluding the track from St Anger) but how from 27 years of music, how cohesive it all sounds. From the speedier thrash moments from their early days to the new single 'The Day That Never Comes' (their fortieth single), which ends like a whale being sucked down a man hole; it all sits together, perhaps too well, showing how little they and their heavy metal genre has progressed in twenty seven years.

Surprisingly though tonight was more than just music tourism or stadium spectacle gazing. Seeing Metallica really _is_ one of those must-see-before-you-or-they die kinda things. Not quite tell your grandkids, more sit back and wait for the moment to crawl through you until some primal bloodthirsty sensation scratches its way out. But unlike seeing the Stones or the Pistols, it's a chance to glance history, as James, Lars and co. are still not only deemed to be relevant but they're doing something which is still gaining new fans and inspiring a whole new generation of metal. Whether rock will ever develop beyond its generic confines still remains to be seen and heard but then tonight is like comfort food, safe in the knowledge Metallica will always be as intense as the day they began making their primal throb. with 'Seek and Destroy' still thudding in their ears the question of progression isn't one for any of the devoted cramming into tube carriages on the way home tonight, still tingling from seeing their heroes killing it.