Back in August 1994, right in the middle of Metallica's infamous "Shit Hits the Sheds Tour" (officially a cheeky nod to their massive North American run behind the Black Album), Kirk Hammett kindly invited me, (Frederick Moulaert), to tag along for the final two shows. What an insane honor — and what perfect timing for my life to implode.
I'd just bought the plane tickets when my partner and I called it quits. Boom, breakup. So instead of wallowing solo, I dragged my little sister Anne along. Yes, that Anne, the one who once crossed swords (literally) with Bruce Dickinson in a fencing bout. If anyone could handle rock-star chaos with a straight face, it was her.
First stop: August 20, Tampa
Florida State Fairgrounds
The gig was epic, but the real story kicked off afterward.
Metallica had rented out an entire strip club for the crew, band, and friends (lucky us included). Picture this: me, trying to act normal while half-naked dancers swirled around, and my baby sister is right there sipping a soda like it's Sunday brunch. Awkward doesn't even cover it. Thank God some Dutch mates and French friends and roadies I knew from previous tours swooped in to form our little "reserved corner" while the rest of the place descended into pure debauchery.
Later, Kirk pulled me aside:
"Hey, wanna hit some clubs with me and the guys?" The guys included Mark Osegueda from Death Angel and a few other party legends. I parked Anne safely with the Dutch couple and French friends, then climbed into a stretched limo that felt longer than my entire moral compass at that point.
And there it was, my grand, belated initiation. At 30 years old, I'd never touched drugs in my life. But surrounded by that pack of absolute professionnal party animals, I thought, "If not now, when?" So yes, I tried cc for the first (and pretty much only) time. Don't judge, peer pressure from Metallica entourage hits different.
The club? Absolute pandemonium.
The owner greeted us like royalty, shoving fistfuls of free-drink tokens at us, only for the bartenders to wave it all away: "Everything's on the house for Metallica!" Except… it was just Kirk and his hairy posse. No James, no Lars, no Jason. Still, the rumor spread like wildfire. Suddenly every long-haired dude in our group got mobbed by girls convinced we were the band. I got mistaken for a member at least three times. Total ego trip, until you remember you're just some Belgian guy who knows the band.
At one point Kirk whispered we were doing a quick "refuel" lap around the block in the limo.
Back inside for round two (or five). The night finally fizzled out around 5:30 AM in Kirk’s hotel suite : three rooms, three beds, endless drinks, and impromptu guitar jams. Kirk offered me a spot to crash, but guilt hit hard: Anne was probably imagining me dead in a ditch (no working mobile in the US back then). So Kirk begged the poor limo driver to wait another hour and drop me at our much more modest hotel around 6:30 AM.
I stumbled in at 7:15, zero sleep. Quick shower, forced breakfast, then Anne (bless her) drove us the whole way to Miami while I passed out in the backseat like a hungover corpse.
Image made with AI for the strory purpose.
Miami, August 21 :
Bicentennial Park, the tour closer
I was a zombie the entire day. Backstage highlight: Madonna herself, there because the opening act Candlebox had just signed to her Maverick label. She greeted the band warmly; I snapped a few photos (which, annoyingly, I still can't locate for the time being) but Anne probably guards them like state secrets.
After the show, Madonna hosted the official after-party at her Miami villa.
I got invited along with the Metallica camp. Anthrax's Scott Ian was there too as her former girlfriend was working for the Madonna crew. We piled into a limo with Rob Halford (yes, the Metal God) and Scott. As we waited for the guys to finish up backstage, my eyelids were winning the war. Rob glanced over, grinned, and deadpanned: “Here’s someone who didn’t sleep much last night.” Spot on. I'd barely napped on the drive down.
I made the executive decision: screw the party.
I bailed out of the limo, dragged myself over to say farewell to James and Kirk, thank them properly, and admit that I was barely standing upright anymore. James pulled me in for a solid hug, while Kirk did the math in his head and realized: while he’d been crashed out in his hotel room until 2:30 PM, then hopped on their private jet to Miami and strolled in all fresh around 5:00 PM, I had just powered through the entire Tampa-to-Miami drive with zero sleep. He gave me that sympathetic rock-star look, and our goodbyes were ridiculously warm and heartfelt.
Then I rejoined Anne and our Dutch and French friends, and crawled back to the hotel. Exhausted, hungover, happy,... and somehow still alive.
What a ridiculous, glorious 48 hours. Thanks, Kirk, for the invite. Thanks, Anne, for the drive and the patience. And thanks Florida — you were one hell of a mess.
