Philly 5/25
Metallica Melted My Face in Philly — And I’d Do It Again Thirsty
Let me just say this up front: Metallica in Philly was a religious experience. I’m still buzzing. My ears are still ringing. And my throat? Dry as the desert—because I made the catastrophic mistake of drinking exactly one Pepsi.
More on that in a minute.
The show took place at Lincoln Financial Field, and I’ll admit, walking into Eagles territory as a Giants fan felt...wrong. Sinful, even. But hey—credit where it’s due—that stadium is really freakin' nice. Modern, clean (at least at the start), and built for exactly the kind of sonic apocalypse Metallica delivered. Go Giants, though. Just had to get that in there.
Now onto the show: absolutely insane. The setlist? Flawless. The crowd? Rabid in the best way. The merch? S-tier—especially that cheesesteak-devouring demon poster they dropped just for the Philly stop. I don’t know what kind of unholy creature that was, but it looked like it hadn’t eaten in 500 years and was born to crush provolone and souls.
Robert Trujillo Pick: Caught… Sort Of
I didn’t catch it mid-air, sadly—I’m not exactly centerfield glove material—but I did scoop a Robert Trujillo pick off the floor after the lights came up. Felt like discovering a lost artifact from an ancient civilization. Still had that fresh-funk Trujillo essence. A bit of divine bass mojo to take home.
The One-Pepsi Mistake
Now, let’s talk hydration strategy. I don’t drink alcohol anymore, so I drank one Pepsi. One. Because I figured: eh, I’ll pace myself. Well. Let me tell you—the bathroom situation was pure chaos. A war zone. Looked like Thunderdome in there. People running, yelling, forming unsanctioned lines that disobeyed all known laws of queue theory.
So I made the call: no more liquids.
What followed was a full set of thrash metal in a state of spiritual dehydration. I was thirstier than hell, but I wasn’t gonna miss For Whom the Bell Tolls because I was trapped in urinal gridlock. I suffered nobly. James would’ve been proud.
Philly: You Brought the Heat
Gotta hand it to Philadelphia—what a city. The crowd was feral in the best way, and the vibes were loud, friendly, and rowdy from the moment I got near the venue. Metallica fans from all over showed up, but the hometown energy hit different.
Between the show, the poster, the stadium, the demon cheesesteak god, and the magic of finding a Trujillo pick like it was dropped straight from Valhalla, it was a night I’ll never forget.
Metallica didn’t just put on a concert—they launched a full-scale auditory siege. And I was lucky enough to be on the front lines, Pepsi in hand (for exactly six regrettable sips).
Closed at 7PM?! Angelo’s, What Are You—A Bank?!
One last thing—and honestly, I’m still fuming about it: Angelo’s was CLOSED. Closed! I was about to head over after the show, ready to devour a cheesesteak like that demon on the poster, only to find they close at 7PM. Seven! Who closes a pizza, hoagie, and cheesesteak joint at 7PM?! Are they insane?! What, not enough Colleges around? I came to Philly expecting molten cheese and hoagie juice on my shirt—not heartbreak and confusion. If you run a cheesesteak temple of glory, maybe stay open past sunset, yeah? Just saying. Also, who, I ask you, that lives a productive life, can eat a cheesesteak for lunch and not take a very serious nap immediately after. I’d like to meet that person…
Go Metallica. Boo Eagles. Stay hydrated.
