Metallic Greed

Metallic Greed
A Sad-Sarcastic Ode to Capitalism, Cramped Seats, and the Death of Rock Reverence

It was 1993. I was studying at Bauman University in Russia—where hope was in short supply but Metallica was carved into every desk and chair like some desperate prayer. In a time of uncertainty, in a country being economically and spiritually gutted, there it was—Metallica, scratched into splintered wood as if Lenin himself had approved the playlist.

The 90s in Russia weren’t just hard; they were catastrophic. A collapsing economy, vanishing jobs, and national pride swirling the drain. Meanwhile, across the ocean, America was The Story™—complete with high-octane Clintons, shiny cruise missiles, and a musical invasion force of pop, rock, and every other overproduced genre that could be exported through MTV.

Russian scientists were fleeing to MIT, figure skating coaches were defecting to train future American Olympians, and the youth? They were hypnotized by American rock. That’s where I found Metallica—or maybe, Metallica found me. My Russian friend told me when Metallica performed in Moscow, over a million people showed up. A million people, just to scream their angst in unison. Ah, the sweet smell of freedom… and body odor.

Ever since, I had one humble dream on my bucket list: see Metallica live.

Flash forward about three decades. 2025. Toronto. The Rogers Centre. Metallica was coming. Still touring, still singing, still surviving the death of CDs and the Spotify streaming pennies. I, now a veteran of capitalism’s slow soul-crushing grind, decided to check that box on my bucket list.

But it was recession season, baby. The economy was in the toilet and I hesitated like a man deciding between paying rent or buying a concert ticket. I chose Metallica. But just barely. I bought the cheapest seat available—strategically located in what I can only describe as the oxygen-thin atmosphere of the stadium’s nosebleeds. My seat was less a “seat” and more a 2'x2'x2' cube of existential discomfort.

Before Metallica, Limp Bizkit performed. Yeah, that Limp Bizkit. Surprisingly good. Nostalgia kicked in. It was like watching your weird cousin finally get it together. The rows beside me were empty, so I could sway a bit, even move my knees. Freedom! Or so I thought.

Then Metallica came on.

Suddenly, my neighbor seats were filled. Every square inch of that cube was now occupied—knees touching, elbows clashing. It was economy class on a budget airline, but with louder bass and no free peanuts. I tried to enjoy it, I really did. The music was good. But the experience? Not so much.

It hit me then: this was capitalism’s final encore. Maximize ticket sales. Shrink the seats. Charge you for air. Just like planes, just like housing, just like everything. Cramp the soul out of every good thing.

And honestly? Limp Bizkit was more fun. More people danced to them. Maybe because their beats didn’t come wrapped in a $300 nostalgia tax.

So here I am, thirty years later, bucket list checked—but with a side of buyer’s remorse. I doubt I’ll go see any more “big name” bands. Unless they start offering standing room with dignity.

Metallica was carved into the desks of despair in 90s Russia. Today, it’s carved into capitalism’s receipt paper. Greed wins again.

But damn... I still kinda love the music.

Wish there was less greed in this world.
Or at least more legroom.