The iconic artists James Hetfield called his musical gods

It’s not the sort of answer you’d expect from the frontman of Metallica, a band long associated with speedy thrash riffs and Hetfield gruffly barking “YEAAH!” at the top of his lungs. But his list of influences points somewhere else entirely. These aren’t showboaters who are desperately over-eager to wow you with finger gymnastics; they’re the ones who stood fast in a storm, creating a sound that dug as deep as a hurricane shelter.

Let’s consider how Tony Iommi first summoned the rainclouds. Yes, he pioneered heavy metal, but his real power came from knowing how to hold back. Sabbath’s riffs didn’t exactly race, and instead writhed and lumbered like a slug down your ear canal. Those monolithic slabs of sound sounded heavier simply by refusing to budge, barely moving until they started feasting on your brain, and Hetfield clearly paid attention.

Then there’s Rudolf Schenker of Scorpions, rarely at the top of anyone’s list, but quietly one of the most consistent peddlers of classic rock’s most unsung riffs. While Matthias Jabs arguably gave the band the sting in their tail, it was Schenker’s use of chugging power chords and impeccable timing that infused the venom, always ready to unleash delirium in anyone within earshot.

And Malcolm Young? That one’s obvious. No one in rock history has done more with fewer notes. AC/DC built their empire on Malcolm’s stubbornness, a man who made three chords last 17 albums and still pack out stadiums. Unlike his brother Angus, Malcolm didn’t dress like he’d just bunked off school. This was a man who’d done his homework and spent his career ticking off all the boxes on rock’n’roll’s multiple choice questionnaire. For Hetfield, Malcolm was the real head boy of AC/DC, while Angus was too busy trying to have a food fight with the dinner ladies.

Arguably, the most eyebrow-raising part of Hetfield’s list is his punk influences. A lot of metalheads may be averse to punk pioneers like the Ramones and The Misfits, but it’s clear there’s a trace of them in Metallica’s DNA. As a guitarist, Johnny Ramone’s approach was wince-inducing, full of stabbing downstrokes which made up for his lack of flair with self-punishing gusto. Ramone’s method was like he was trying to give himself repetitive strain injury on purpose – sure, it might not have been pretty to watch, but like watching a man wage war on his own carpal tunnel, it was hard to look away.

New Jersey horrorcore punks The Misfits, on the other hand, were a darker but far campier prospect. Flaunting their schlocky B-movie aesthetic with macabre lyrics about everything from murderous ghouls to alien invasions, Glenn Danzig’s demented Elvis schtick looked like he had been kicked off a UFO for trying to abduct too many cows. Often banging away on his guitar like a zombie fist pounding on a crypt door, Danzig’s approach was gruelling, yes, but it woke up the dead, and Hetfield too.

Through these unlikely musical gods, you can glimpse the machinery behind Metallica, and it reveals something surprisingly unshowy with reams of control, repetition, and tightness. If Kirk Hammett’s out there riding the lightning, Hetfield’s downstrokes are the earth-shaking rumble, striking the ground with hammer blows as Metallica’s electrical storm gathers pace.

So the next time you feel strangely electrified when listening to a Metallica song, spare a thought for Hetfield’s rhythm gods. None of them were rainmakers, or even storm-chasers – they were just the guys who hunkered down and downpicked until the heavens fell in.

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