Just like the real thing, except in a much smaller stadium.

 

Around two hundred souls were holding down the wee pub's peanut shell-sprinkled floor and spilling out into the smokers' patio outside when we showed up. Once the openers were done, the smoke machines had the joint socked in and the audience had had their fill of obnoxious Nickelback hits on the sound system, the main event started at darn near the stroke of midnight.

The Kirk Hammett and Lars Ulrich surrogates were the most impressive players, demonstrating near-cyborg grade flawlessness in their drumming and guitar shredding. The fake versions of James Hetfield and Robert Trujillo were pretty kickass in their own right, but they almost seemed like they were having too much fun. Plus, they didn't have a fan blowing their hair from behind like Fake Lars.

The crowd gobbled up the spectacle, flicking Bics, air-guitaring, raising the horns and sending plenty of James Hetfield-style "Ye-eah's" toward the stage.

Regardless, in the end it was clear that The True Spirit of Metallica had been most decidedly present at the Reed Pub that night. Once it was over, many souls left thoroughly rocked, but still wanting more.