Cliff Burton

It seems like I write about a dead dude once a year. Last year it was Matt McGrory, 2004 was about Ol’ Dirty, and now I’m writing about Cliff Burton.

September 27, 2006 marked the 20th anniversary of the death of Cliff Burton. As many of you might know, Cliff played bass for Metallica during their best years and had a huge impact on Metallica’s music, its members, and its fans. Cliff was around for their three best albums – Kill ‘Em All, Ride the Lightning, and my personal favorite, Master of Puppets. When I first moved to New York, I pretty much only listened to Metallica and BDP; I was new to the city, feeling a bit at odds as I figured it all out, and I only wanted to hear bangers when I was walking through the tunnel between the L and the red line or just cruising around my neighborhood. That was back when I just had a cassette Walkman – we didn’t have ipods back then, sonny boy, and I wasn’t able to plug the Walkman into my hearing aid like I can do with the ipod. Just kidding. You can’t do that yet.

Lots of folks speak of their ability to clearly recall where they were when they first heard about tragic events that had a far-reaching impact on society – the Kennedy assassination, the first shuttle explosion, 9/11, stuff like that. For some reason, even though it’s a relatively insignificant moment in history and even in my own life, I remember where I was when I heard about Cliff’s death. I was in the Florida room of my house in Miami Beach, planted in front of the TV watching MTV. I’m pretty sure Martha Quinn announced it – I can still picture that moment in my mind’s eye: the new bookcase was in, the wrought-iron furniture was that pink salmon color, and I was leaning toward the TV in adolescent shock. I was mostly listening to heavy metal back then, and had just gotten a little taste of speed metal; while I had not heard much Metallica, I loved what I had heard. I was sad to hear the news, despite not knowing much about Cliff Burton. I knew that we had lost a good one.

I just wanted to write a little something about Cliff because he was an amazing musician and, from what I know, he was a really good guy as well. A lot of folks thought he was a real bad dude because of his onstage persona and because of the insane, drunken escapades that Metallica got themselves into. He just looked like a badass, too – the type of dude who drove an old, tough car to school, wore white concert jersey-style t-shirts with the black sleeves, took shop class, and didn’t say shit to anyone when he walked through the halls, towering over everyone else and looking sullen. He seemed like the type of cat who parked in that other part of the parking lot, away from the jocks and richies.

The truth is, however, that those who knew him describe a quiet, friendly guy, even a little nerdy (he was classically trained in piano and knew about theory and stuff, which the dudes in Metallica knew nothing about), who preferred to smoke herbs rather than pound Jaegermeister. Friends, family, and bandmates describe him as being laid-back, a true Californian, a happy guy, but also one who wasn’t to be fucked with and who commanded respect. But first and foremost, he was just a nice dude who loved to play the bass and have fun. Dig this excerpt from a Cliff Burton memorial web site:

His family and friends remembered him as a "world class local boy" with a love for Johann Sebastian Bach, Mexican food and his hometown. His parents said he was "an appreciative and thoughtful son. Because of his performing, he'd sleep all day and stay up all night and never wake us up. Once, a little boy came up to the door, early in the morning and wanted Cliff to sign his shirt. So Cliff staggered to the door - and said "Sure, of course I'll sign it."

"I once called him up and said 'How do you like being a rock star?', and he was furious. He asked me never to refer to him that way again," said his sister, Connie.

What a cool cat. And he fucking rocked, too – he was the quintessential headbanger, never played with a pick, could make a bass sound like a guitar, and wrote and played some of my favorite Metallica tracks. He was a fire-breather onstage and gave it his all every time he got up there. In a way, I feel like I love Metallica because of Cliff Burton. I always admired Lars because I am a drummer – was, at least, and hope to be again someday – and Lars is an awesome, spectacular drummer. But let’s face it: Lars is a little bitch. Anyone who has seen Some Kind of Monster can see that. No one, however, would ever say that about Cliff, and even if he had lived another 20 years, no one would ever say that now. I cannot describe how I felt when, while watching Some Kind of Monster, I saw the part when James Hetfield spoke of how he “[wanted] Cliff back.” I know what you mean, dude, I really, really do. I know what it’s like to want something that cannot be delivered, to wish so deeply for a past, and a present, to be something that they are not and never will be no matter how much we wish for it. The world shone more brightly for many with Cliff in this world, and he represents so many things that we must find a way to represent on our own; not in his honor, but because it’s the right way to live a life: fully, and with passion and conviction and steadfast confidence.

Cliff ‘em all, motherfuckers.