Wherever I May Roam - And Justice For Whom ?

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Metallica, Neurodivergence, and the Sound That Knew Me First

Before getting into Metallica, I need to share some back story.

My first concert ever was Bon Jovi - in November 1989. They performed at the Perth Entertainment Centre.

I was fourteen—barely. Just a couple of weeks past my birthday.

The arena that night was the same building I’d sat in several times before.

But not for music. Not for escape.

For religious events.

That venue—like most of my life—had only ever echoed with sermons, altar calls, and Christian conferences.

In my mind, it was a house of worship.

A place where preachers stood at the front, where questions stayed silent, and obedience was worn like armour.

So to walk into that same space and feel the electricity—the crowd, the noise, the sheer joy of it all—

It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before.

Bon Jovi’s performance was pure 1980s spectacle—explosive, theatrical, even firing off indoor pyrotechnics.

It was over the top in all the right ways.

And that night, it felt like freedom.

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Before leaving to see the show, I remember my older sister being pissed off.

She’d never been given that kind of freedom—never allowed to attend something like that herself.

And now, suddenly, there I was—just fourteen—heading off without restraint.

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We were living in Kulin back then, a small country town with a population of around 300.

Small by headcount—but not by confidence.

The locals proudly called it “The Capital of the Wheatbelt.”

Perth was a three-hour drive away.

I was going with three mates.

One was two years younger—same year as my little sister—the other two were the year below me at school.

I remember getting to skip two days of school.

That alone felt wild.

And I still remember Mum sitting me down before we left for Perth that day.

It was my youngest mate’s mum who drove us to the big city.

Mum—she was calm. Cautious. Measured.

She warned me I might see people raising their hands—said it could look like worship.

She urged me not to do the same.

Not to fall into that trap.

Not to confuse performance with holiness.

Oh, the irony!

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Reflecting now several decades later, that night doesn’t read as worship to me—

at least, not in the way I’d been taught to see it.

It felt like the first time I ever saw people truly let go.

Like something real had cracked through the surface—

and none of it needed permission.

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Weeks after that concert, I heard Metallica for the first time. And everything shifted.

Where Bon Jovi soared, Metallica rebelled.

Where one dazzled, the other demanded.

It didn’t just sound good.

It sounded true.

Like something I’d been aching to hear— but didn’t yet know I needed.

I didn’t have the words for it then—

not that night at the concert,

not in the record store,

not during the countless times I played their tracks on repeat,

not even across the three times I’ve seen them live since.

But looking back now, it’s clear:

1989 was the threshold.

The moment I began stepping out of a world I’d been handed—and into the one I’d slowly start to claim as my own.

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This is my story, broken into parts like chapters from a life that’s been a bit of a wild ride.

But it’s not just mine—it’s for anyone who’s felt that same pull, that same struggle to find themselves.

If you’re still out there, trying to find your voice, or figuring out who you are—

I hope this resonates.

...

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The Moment It Clicked

I didn’t stumble across Metallica through mates, siblings, or some classic coming-of-age moment.

It was a few weeks after attending the Bon Jovi concert, in 1989.

I’d wandered into a music store at Mirrabooka Shopping Centre—just killing time.

Flipping through the new releases rack,

I spotted it: ...

And Justice for All.

The album cover artwork, it was stark.

The church will hate it — Was the first thing that came to my mind.

Metallica had released it a few months earlier.

I slid the headphones on—and everything changed.

I was hooked instantly.

Not in my head, but somewhere deeper.

That place in me that didn’t yet have language for what I’d lived, where I’d come from, or why the world always seemed slightly off-kilter.

But I knew it was right.

...And Justice for All was the first one that really grabbed me.

From the moment it hit my ears, I was in.

Not because I liked it—

But because it sounded like me.

Like it was echoing back everything I’d never been allowed to say.

Growing Up in the Church

I was raised in a Pentecostal religious sect.

Honestly, that feels like the simplest way to put it.

For my family, it was Christ first, church second.

But the line between the two was razor-thin—we lived and breathed it.

Church wasn’t just somewhere we went.

It was the centre of everything.

Sundays were double sessions.

Fridays meant youth group or prayer nights.

Midweek was Bible study.

And every other gathering—birthdays, barbecues, even casual catch-ups—revolved around the congregation.

We didn’t just attend—we belonged.

And that kind of belonging came with a price.

One we couldn’t really afford.

Prior to the age of say 10 or 11, I was mostly oblivious, I saw attending church, mostly as a place where I'd play with "friends", their lives echoing shades of my own.

Disciplined ruled. As did being seen for what you should be, in the face of god, is all that mattered

We were taught to fear anyone outside the fold.

Non-believers. Outsiders. People who thought differently. They weren’t just different—they were dangerous. Relationships, thoughts, even music that didn’t fit the mould were threats.

We learned to police ourselves—and each other.

There wasn’t room for questions. No space for being different, Let alone who you really were.

The Music That Mirrored Me

When Metallica crashed into my world, it wasn’t just music. It was a mirror.

I didn’t understand the lyrics straight away. Didn’t know the history, the meanings, or the politics. But something in my nervous system just lit up.

This wasn’t rebellion for the sake of it—it was truth. The structure. The tone. The refusal to conform. It all matched something inside me that had never been given a voice.

Where others heard anger, I heard freedom. Where they heard noise, I heard release. Every track felt like tearing through the chains that had wrapped around me since childhood.

The System That Never Added Up

Looking back, I realise Metallica weren’t teaching me anything new—they were validating what I already knew deep down.

...And Justice for All didn’t open my eyes—it gave weight to a truth I was already carrying.

That the systems we’re told to trust don’t always protect us. That power can be random. That obedience isn’t always noble.

I never got permission to question any of it growing up. But Metallica didn’t wait for permission. They ripped the curtain down—and cranked the volume.

They were angry. And they were right.

“Opposition… contradiction… premonition… compromise is not a word we’re taught.”

That’s not poetry when you’re raised in a black-and-white belief system. That’s autobiography.

Learning About Hetfield’s Story

Much later in life I found out—James Hetfield grew up in a strict Christian Science home. No doctors. No Medication. Just prayer.

His mum believed so strongly, she refused treatment for cancer—and she died because of it.

“See our mother put to death, see our mother die.”

That lyric hits hard. Not as an environmental metaphor. But as a personal wound.

I didn’t know Hetfield’s backstory when I first heard it. But my body recognised it instantly.

That line was about my world, too. About mothers erased inside systems that claimed to save them.

Now, decades later, it makes perfect sense. That music wasn’t just loud. It was hurting. It was truth. It was fighting to get free.

My Subconscious Knew It First

Now, in middle age, with the language of neurodivergence finally in my hands, I can see it clearly.

The music knew me before I knew myself.

It was already mapping the pressure I lived under—the fear, the hypervigilance, the need to shrink myself just to feel safe.

I didn’t know I was inside a controlled world. Didn’t know there was another way.

But my body did. And it grabbed onto anything that sounded real.

Metallica was the first thing that did.

Seeing My Folks Clearly

And here’s the hardest truth:

My parents weren’t the wardens. They were inside the prison too.

They didn’t design the rules—they inherited them. They raised us the only way they knew how—through scripts written long before they were born.

They were devout. Honest. Obedient. And they were exploited for it.

Promised salvation—but handed silence. Promised community—but given control.

They tried their best. They loved us with everything they had.

But the cost was our selves. And somehow—through cassette tapes, late-night listens, frantic rewinds—Metallica gave me flashes of freedom.

Wherever I May Roam

“Where I lay my head is home…”

That line still undoes me. Not because it’s poetic—but because it’s true.

I’ve spent a lifetime trying to feel at home in my own skin. Trying to believe that love didn’t require compliance. That difference didn’t mean danger.

I don’t live by those old rules anymore. But their shadows linger. The tone still hums beneath my skin.

When I hear that sound—that wild, heavy, relentless sound—I remember the version of me that had no words. And I honour the one who can finally speak.

This isn’t just about Metallica. It’s about what happens when a sound breaks the silence. When it drowns out the voice of the system. When it meets you where you are, and says:

“You’re not mad. You’re not wrong. You’re not alone.”

And wherever I may roam—That signal still finds me.

What I Know About Hetfield

• He’s spoken about feeling like an outsider his whole life.

• He’s wrestled with control, addiction, and rage.

• He’s said music was his only safe place to feel.

• He’s withdrawn from people. Masked up in public.

• He creates with hyper-focus, exactness, and emotional weight.

He’s never said he’s neurodivergent. But to many of us who are—the signal’s unmistakable.

You Don’t Need a Label to Be Heard

Tone doesn’t lie. Even when the person sending it doesn’t know what they’re transmitting.

So maybe Hetfield’s neurodivergent. Maybe not. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

The resonance is real.

And for people like me—who felt that tone before we could name it—That’s more than enough.

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Learn more about Tone Thread and Spectral Binary here.