Metallica Honors the Prince of Darkness in an Unforgettable Night of Grief, Grit, and Glory

Gothenburg, July 24, 2025 —
In a city built on iron and fire, Metallica brought the thunder—but it was James Hetfield’s tears that split the sky wide open.

Midway through a scorching set at Ullevi Stadium, Hetfield called a sudden halt to the chaos. As the opening distortion of “Sad But True” faded into silence, all lights cut out—except for a single, pale spotlight on the frontman. The crowd roared, then fell eerily still.

What happened next wasn’t just a tribute.
It was a funeral. A confession. A goodbye.
It was a brother mourning his brother, with no mask, no pyro, no armor—just pain.

“Ozzy Osbourne… man, he wasn’t just music. He was blood. He was chaos. He was the reason I screamed in the first place,” Hetfield began, voice cracked and trembling. “I miss you, brother. I f***ing miss you.”

The screen behind him lit up with a slow montage—Ozzy in his wildest moments: stage-diving, biting bats, crying with Sharon, hugging fans, screaming into the abyss like it owed him something. The Prince of Darkness in all his glorious contradiction—madness and love fused into one broken, beautiful man.

Then came the thunder.

Metallica launched into a blistering, never-before-heard instrumental medley of Black Sabbath classics—“Paranoid,” “War Pigs,” “Children of the Grave.” No lyrics. Just walls of riffs and raw grief, Hetfield’s guitar practically weeping between every scream of the strings.

And just when the noise reached its peak, it all… stopped.

Hetfield stepped alone into the spotlight again, gripping a worn acoustic guitar. The crowd—50,000 strong—held its breath.

“This next one… I never thought I’d sing it. But I have to now.”

With shaking hands, he played a stripped, soul-crushing version of “Mama, I’m Coming Home.”
No drums. No backing vocals. Just James, crying between the lines.

“You took me in and you drove me out, yeah… you had me hypnotized…”

He choked on the final chorus. The crowd took over. Thousands of voices, rough and reverent, carried it for him.

Not a dry eye in the house. Grown men sobbed. Teens raised lighters and phones in silence. And when the last chord faded, Hetfield pointed upward and whispered:

“This whole damn tour’s for you, Ozzy.”

Then, in true metal fashion, he looked out at the crowd, wiped his tears, raised his guitar, and growled:

“Now let’s raise hell the way Ozzy would’ve wanted.”

They exploded into “Battery,” but the air was different now. Heavy with memory. Lit by legend.