It may be the worst song ever written.
One of those self-portraits hangs on the wall in his bedroom, which has black-velvet curtains in front of the windows, a cashmere blanket and four white pillows on the bed, and his silver-lamé evening gloves of old stuffed away in the closet.
But I got lucky sometimes.
And I met James Hetfield, who I respect.
And then when he finally did sing, he sang it like Betty Boop.
It was like talking to an old friend.
In certain ways, this is a stunning thing to hear him say, especially given his long and squalid sexual history.
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