20/11/2025

Metallica – Eden Park: November 19, 2025 (13th Floor Concert Review)

There was something oddly spiritual about walking down the blocked-off roads of Kingsland amongst the horde of Metallica fans into Eden Park yesterday afternoon – that strange twilight hour that only exists before a behemoth of a band hits the stage, where Auckland feels half asleep and half feral and the clouds hang low and stubborn, a grey smear across the sky like they’re trying to protest the rain and gatekeep the sun.

It has been a long time since I have walked into Eden Park for a gig, and even longer since Metallica graced one of our stages with a visit at all. Fifteen years is a long wait for anyone, let alone a country at the bottom of the world that still plays Master Of Puppets at every third house party.

You could feel the build-up before you even saw the stadium. On the train into Kingsland, whole carriages were black cotton and denim, faded tattoos and a sea of well-worn band shirts and patches. Every second person had that excitable energy. Every third person had that look of someone quietly vibrating, trying not to admit how much this night means to them. A lifetime of riffs stored in the back of the skull, finally about to be absorbed at weaponised volume.

Inside, Eden Park looked like it had been converted into some enormous breathing organism. Thousands of people poured across the field and into the stands, swarming the concrete bowl like ants around the world’s biggest amp. The stage dominated the eastern end: towering screens, a wall of lighting rigs, and those huge tilted “M” and “A” structures bookending everything so that when the full METALLICA logo appeared at the farewell of the set, it felt like a gargantuan digital monolith. An almost tangible energy rippled through the air, the conversations, and the crowd; this was more a city-sized ritual than a concert.

Credit where it’s due: logistics actually worked. Transport in, for once, was painless. Security was relaxed but present. Staff were friendly in that “we have accepted tonight will be chaos” way. Weed smell drifted through the concourses like an unofficial sponsor. The bars worked. The toilets weren’t spontaneously soaked in levels of piss and vomit only found on the set of The Exorcist. For most of the night, the whole operation felt suspiciously competent, only collapsing back into its usual madness once the final note ended and thousands of people tried to squeeze onto the same handful of trains.

The weather did the most Auckland thing possible and threatened to rain for hours without ever fully committing. A bit of drizzle here, a hint of spit there, then nothing. The clouds held their nerve until after the show, which meant the night played out under a soft, humid gloom that suited metal far more than a clear evening ever could.

Suicidal Tendencies

Suicidal Tendencies were first up at 5:30, walking out to a still-filling stadium and acting like it was already midnight in a packed club. They tore straight into You Can’t Bring Me Down and Join The Army, and suddenly the people who had snuck in early for a good spot were in the middle of a full skate-punk revival.

Send Me Your Money and Subliminal felt surprisingly sharp in a rugby stadium, the riffs bouncing off concrete and steel. It was a fast, sweaty, high-energy set – the musical equivalent of an espresso shot straight into the bloodstream that cut through the muggy atmosphere and energised the crowd.

Evanescence

Evanescence followed at 6:30, stepping into that dangerous middle slot that can swallow a band whole, and absolutely refused to be swallowed. Amy Lee’s voice is one of those freak-of-nature instruments that just slices through stadium air. Afterlife and Made Of Stone set the tone, heavy but melodic, the sound still bedding in as the stands filled.

By the time they hit Going Under and Call Me When You’re Sober, the nostalgia had properly kicked in. Lithium floated over the stadium like a gloomy hymn, contrasting later as My Immortal had thousands of people swaying and singing. Bring Me To Life closed the set with exactly the sort of exaggerated crowd-chanting theatrical punch you want from Evanescence. As openers, both bands did more than warm the place up. They created a proper flow, a full evening of music rather than just two speed bumps before the main event.

Metallica

And just after 8 p.m. – with what felt like supernaturally perfect scheduling and timeliness – the light finally gave up. The stadium darkened, the screens flickered to life, and AC/DC’s It’s A Long Way To The Top rolled out over the PA, that cheeky Australasia nod blasting through the speakers while the crowd roared. Then the real prelude: Ennio Morricone’s The Ecstasy of Gold, complete with the classic western visuals. That slow, swelling theme turned Eden Park into a cinema, and you could feel the entire place inhale as one.

Metallica walked on like men who have been doing this longer than most of the crowd has been alive. James Hetfield stepped up to the chunky, chrome vintage-style microphones with that familiar, controlled swagger; Kirk Hammett grinned like he was already halfway through a solo; Robert Trujillo stalked his corner of the stage with that low, wide stance that makes his bass look like a weapon; and Lars Ulrich climbed up behind the kit, drumsticks prepared for the kind of theatrical confidence only he can get away with.

The crowd barely had time to wave before Creeping Death detonated out of the speakers – unfortunately to a heavy soup of audio mixing that would occasionally resurface through the night. With the crowd’s energy so high, you could argue it felt like a raw part of the experience, that this wasn’t a sterile hi-fi arena show and instead it was a very loud band wrestling with the physics of an outdoor stadium.

For Whom The Bell Tolls followed, those chugging bass notes stalking across the field like something huge and unseen. Fuel ignited the front rows, literal jets of flame punctuating every chorus while strobes flickered like a broken engine room. Harvester Of Sorrow lumbered in, slow and menacing, a reminder of how deep and heavy their late-80s catalogue still is. The Unforgiven brought the first real mass singalong, thousands of voices turning that melancholy chorus into something fragile and communal. Wherever I May Roam all frantic pace and searing lights, lasers carving bright lines through the night.

Then came one of the most purely joyful moments of the night. Kirk and Robert stepped forward for their now traditional tour-specific tribute to the host country. First they slid into I Got You by Split Enz, which lit up the older end of the crowd and confused a few teens until their parents lost their minds, before they dove straight into Six60’s Don’t Forget Your Roots. For a few minutes, the world’s biggest metal band turned into the tightest covers act in town, with the Auckland crowd absolutely adoring it and Six60 no doubt falling to their knees in gratitude somewhere in the distance.

The Day That Never Comes pulled things back into full Metallica drama, its slow burn blooming into a wide screen finale that seemed purpose built for stadiums. Moth Into Flame came next, stretched out like a road movie, the screens behind the band flickering with neon motel signs and fever-dream Americana, making the stage look like some cursed slice of the Las Vegas strip had crash-landed in Mt Eden. Sad But True hit with the subtlety of a wrecking ball, that lumbering riff shaking the stands as thousands of heads nodded in perfect time, before Nothing Else Matters arrived as the collective exhale. The stage lights dropped to a warm glow, phones went up, arms slid around shoulders, and for a few minutes the loudest band in the world became the softest thing in the stadium.

Hearing that song sung back by thousands of people, under a sky that had finally gone fully dark, was one of those simple, undeniable live music moments – the kind that tears you out of the bullshit of everything else and straps you into a visceral emotional experience you can’t ignore. Then the tenderness vanished into the abyss. Hetfield announced he was about to transform the set with one, heavy word: Seek. The call came back from the collective thousands, equal parts appreciative scream and collective plea: Destroy!

Seek & Destroy detonated and the stadium turned playful. Giant black and yellow Metallica beach balls were unleashed over the crowd, dozens of them bouncing slowly above the floor and fighting against the wind that forced them back towards the stage. Grown adults swatted them with the enthusiasm of sugar-drunk kids at a birthday party. Lux Æterna gave the 72 Seasons era its moment, buzzing with high-tempo adrenaline and proving that the new material belongs in the same space as the classics. Master Of Puppets followed with its sharp, sudden, tsunami of sound. The place nearly levitated. Entire rows turned into mosh lines. People screamed the lyrics with the intensity of confession through the plumes of smoke and blur of phone screens.

One arrived like an air raid. Strobe lights mimicked gunfire, white flashes cutting through smoke while the soundscape of explosions and machine guns played out. When the main riff dropped, the whole stadium felt wired to the same nervous system. Theatrical, over the top, and absolutely perfect before, inevitably, Enter Sandman. The lullaby from hell. The opening riff landed and Eden Park lost what was left of its collective mind. Fire cannons roared, the massive screens bathed the field in blue and white, and the crowd shouted every word like they had been waiting fifteen years just to do exactly that. As the last chords rang out, fireworks erupted behind the stage, soaring high above the rim of the stadium and painting the low clouds in red and gold. The rain finally started to tease around the edges, more mist than downpour, as if the sky had waited politely for the encore.

And still, there was one rare, human moment of precious joy left to share. As the band lined up to say their goodbyes, throw fistfuls of guitar picks into the crowd, and promise that they wouldn’t leave it another decade and a half before returning, the band suddenly ambushed Kirk with cans of silly string, covering him head to toe while the crowd roared. It was his birthday (the day before), and after two hours of precision heaviness, watching Metallica essentially pull a prank on their own lead guitarist and then lead the stadium in Happy Birthday felt disarmingly human. For all the scale and myth, this was – ultimately, beneath all the pyrotechnics and the performance and the grit – still just four friends having fun on a stage and burning with a desire to share that with every single person in the crowd.

Metallica in 2025 aren’t just a nostalgia act going through the motions. They’re older, sure, and frighteningly well rehearsed, but there’s nothing lazy or forgettable about what they do. The sound mix wobbled between muddy and razor sharp, yet the performances never did. Every riff landed with intent. Every drum fill had purpose. They feel like a band who knows exactly what they are, and delivers it full force.

This was more than a gig. It was a city-scale gathering. A reminder that metal, at its best, is not just noise. It’s community, ritual, catharsis. Fifteen years after their last visit, Metallica came back to Auckland and turned Eden Park into a massive, temporary church of volume.

It was loud.

It was messy.

It was Metallica.

And damn was it absolutely worth the wait.

Oxford Lamoureaux

Click on any image to view a photo gallery by Jennifer de Koning

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